


How you touch my soul from the outside

by marin27



Category: Spider-Man (Video Games 2018-2020), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Birthday Fluff, Dancing, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, No Beta We Die Like Aunt May, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Precious Miles Morales, Precious Peter Parker, Self-Esteem Issues, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marin27/pseuds/marin27
Summary: Peter waves a hand, ready to deflect and avoid any conversation about this. “Nothing to worry about—”“Don’t do that,” Miles says more quietly, as if afraid he’d get chastised for speaking up, but his expression doesn’t break, doesn’t crumble under Peter’s startled gaze.“Don’t pretend that everything’s okay. You think I don’t notice but I do. YouknowI do, man.”ORPeter attends Miles' eighteenth birthday party, after two months of purposefully-accidentally avoiding him.Miles sees through all of it in a second.--This came out way more angsty than I planned. I only wanted Miles to teach Peter how to salsa but it became this angsty Pete-is-having-a-'the mortifying ordeal of being known' moment.Enjoy!
Relationships: Mary Jane Watson/Silver Sablinova, Miles Morales/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Mary Jane Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is Miles/Peter slash. Definitely and completely not platonic. If that's not your cup of tea, click away.
> 
> Read on if you wanna see Peter being an overthinking idiot!  
> This is set about 8-9 months after the Miles Morales game, since I just put his birthday like mid-August-ish, so yeah. Two years post Spider-man, 9 months post MM. 
> 
> This fic is about 19-20k words, fully done, just half way edited.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Squints at my previous fic's notes.*  
>  **"I already have a few other fic ideas ruminating in my head, though most of them are just going to be one-shots for now."**
> 
> So, that was a fucking lie.
> 
> Okay, I'mma be real. I swear to god this just started as an innocent 'Miles teaches Peter how to salsa at his birthday party' oneshot. (because Miles can definitely do the salsa, I've made him do so on the sidewalk multiple times)
> 
> But then my angst-thirsty ass wanted something more dramatic, wanted the pain, babey. So, it spiralled into this hot mess, where Peter is subjected to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known™ and they have multiple emotional talks about it. They talk it out, like a lot, because this is self-indulgent and I need that sort of closure in fics.
> 
> So, this fic is more dialogue-heavy and there's lots of internal dialogue in Peter's pov.
> 
> [Speaking of pov, that's the song that this fic is birthed from.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQJEp-k-ogs)  
> *chef's kiss* Favourite song of Ariana at the moment. Kept listening to it on repeat, especially when writing and editing the later part of the fic where they talk everything out. Kept trying to hold back tears because jesus that song hits different.
> 
> [(Here is the version I listen to.)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANtKOP_sa7M)
> 
> Other than that, enjoy!!!

> _It's like you got superpowers_
> 
> _Turn my minutes into hours_
> 
> _You got more than twenty-twenty, babe_
> 
> _Made of glass, the way you see through me_

Peter doesn’t even wince when the bruises lining his knuckles twang; he squeezes a fist, releasing the tension in his slightly-swollen wrist, before he presses on the doorbell.

It’s not the first time that Peter has decided to cut his patrols short for ‘Peter Parker’ things, but it’s certainly not his normal either. By the time he’d webbed up the last of the robbers, he realized he still had time to go back, clean up and swing over. He’d waited a couple more minutes for anything substantial over the police scanner, but he knew he was really just avoiding the inevitable.

There’s music playing, laughter ringing, muffled voices and people speaking over each other. One voice, in particular—an exciteable voice that makes Peter smile to himself—gets louder, “Hold on! There’s someone at the door!”

It swivels open, and Peter can only do so much to stifle the grin. Maybe he made a mistake in trying to avoid this.

“Hey, Miles.”

“Pete! You came! And you aren’t late. That’s a first,” Miles says, swiftly moving in for a hug that Peter automatically returns.

“Traffic wasn’t so bad today,” Peter says, chuckling when Miles rolls his eyes.

“ _Right._ Eight o’clock on a Friday night? Yeah. Says the guy who doesn’t drive.”

“Cabs exist, if you forgot.”

“I thought you hated riding cabs in New York. Always said they’re way too out of your budget.”

“And I’m not wrong,” Peter says, “Rates in New York are _crazy.”_

Miles shakes his head before he pulls Peter into the apartment, closing the door behind him. “No MJ?”

Peter shoves the one free hand—the one not holding onto the hastily wrapped box—into his jean pocket, grinning, ignoring the uptick in his heartrate. “Nah, you know how it is. She’s been way too busy with her new assignment.”

Miles nods his head, “Yeah. The one on Silver Sable and the Maggia, right? Crazy stuff, what she’s writing.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees distantly, “Anyways, how’s it feel to be eighteen, my dear protégé?”

Miles laughs, shrugging. He rubs the back of his neck. Peter’s eyes are drawn to the movement, his arm tensing, muscles straining under the deep grey button-up shirt that Miles was probably forced to wear by his mom. Looks good on him, though.

“Kind of weird, if I’m being honest,” Miles says, eyes flickering up to Peter. “It was built up to be this huge thing, but I don’t really feel any different. Still the same, old Miles.”

Peter pats his shoulder, “Yeah, I felt the same when I first turned eighteen. Suddenly had all this pressure on me to act like an adult. Completely off-putting, as if I wasn’t just seventeen two weeks ago.”

Miles grins, “Right? I mean, now I can vote and, like, be a parent and do other stuff now. Which is just really—”

“Weird,” Peter and Miles say simultaneously. They laugh—and Miles looks happy, relaxed, right at home.

The last time Peter was in Miles’ apartment was when he was invited over to help with Miles’ chemistry project. They nearly blasted off the kitchen stove and Ms. Morales sternly told them to take it up to any other roof and to _not_ destroy her kitchen.

That was almost two months ago.

It’s really Peter’s fault that they haven’t hung around as much. Peter needed— he had needed a little space. There were some things that _really_ needed to be figured out, and although that time away didn’t really help much in the grand scheme of things, it did shed some light on things he learned about himself.

It was a weird two months, especially since he rarely got to see Miles outside of Spider-man business. Miles was a total champ about it too. Didn’t pry when he noticed that Peter was pulling away except say that he was there if Peter needed someone to talk to. He’s a good kid.

When he received the invitation to Miles’ birthday gathering a week ago, he did think of passing up on it. But then he thought of Miles, who doesn’t know about anything that’s happening, who’s understanding and still extended the invitation to him anyway. Of course, when Peter put it that way, he just had to go.

Miles turns to him, and Peter watches as he peers up. His expression is odd, a little cautious. “Hey, Pete. I gotta tell you something.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Miles! Can you help Ganke with the drinks? He’s downstairs, but he’d just texted that the boxes are way too heavy.”

Miles turns to his mother, “Sure, ma! Tell him I’ll be right down.”

Miles flashes an easy grin, “I’ll tell you later, Pete. Enjoy the party while you’re at it.”

He pats Peter’s shoulder, nods and leaves through the door, and Peter is left alone.

The house is the same as he remembered, only with the couch pushed up against the dining table. The dining chairs are lined up against the wall, places for the guests to sit. On one of the dining chairs is a small mountain of boxes and gift bags. Peter walks over, places his own gift, a wrapped box, behind the mound.

Mr. Morales is situated at the kitchen in front of the stove, stirring something in a pot that smells absolutely divine, chatting with someone that Peter vaguely recognizes from one of Ms. Morales office. There are a few familiar faces that he’s seen around Harlem and at F.E.A.S.T.

Gloria is standing by the television, a cup in hand as she surveys the room. Peter smiles, glad to find someone he knows and makes his way towards her.

Gloria beams when she spots him approaching, and raises a hand in greeting. “Hey, Peter! It’s great to see you around, It’s been a while since you stopped by at F.E.A.S.T.”

Peter tries for an apologetic expression, but probably landed on bashful more than anything else. “Sorry, Gloria. Not gonna make any excuses, but the Bugle has really been taking up a lot of my time.”

_Yeah, like sending in my two weeks notice and trying to look for another job._

“Ah, that’s a shame. Could have used a little more help since we’re branching out the offices.”

Peter’s brows shoot up. “You guys are moving F.E.A.S.T.?”

Gloria shakes her head, taking a sip of her drink, “Nah, we’re trying to get more property around New York and hopefully even extend out of the city. It’s been a few busy weeks trying to prepare PR stuff. It’s difficult to get more help with transferring some of the stuff over to the new buildings. Miles helps out a lot. And not only just as Miles. He spread the word on the app and kept talking people’s ears off whenever he goes around helping in the city.”

Peter leans against the mantle, nodding his head. He didn’t even know this was going on. He really has been away for a while.

“It was Miles’ idea,” Gloria says carelessly, and Peter looks at her, staring.

“Said there were other neighborhoods that needed the help too, and that our branch was always at capacity. Ms. Morales even pitched in.”

Peter thinks back to the past few months to whatever he saw on the news. He always kept an ear out for any headlines about the new Councilwoman. She’s been making a real difference. Peter can see where Miles gets his tenacity from.

(He tries not to think about the other—he shoves viciously at the sting in his throat.)

“Was that what the fundraiser was for? A month ago?”

“Yeah,” Gloria nods. “We all missed seeing you around. Lots of the regulars ask for you. Especially Miles.”

Peter tries to hide his surprise, but he perks up anyway.

“Miles?”

“Yeah,” Gloria says slowly, eyeing Peter, “Every time the kid comes around, he always asks if you’re in. Sometimes, I think he stops by just to see if you’re there.”

Peter blinks. “Huh.”

Peter manages to pull up a grin when he catches Gloria looking at him.

“Are you going to ask me how he’s doing?”

Peter’s grin flickers, “What?”

Gloria tips her cup at him, “I heard from the kid you’ve been avoiding him. So, I assume you’re curious how he’s been doing since then.”

He tries not to think how his cheeks heat up, and he hopes it’s not awfully obvious. He _was_ curious about Miles. Since Peter started avoiding—well, not really avoiding, it just happened even if it was unintentional, but he digresses—Miles. It was half a vacation as Spider-man and a break so he can get his own shit together.

“How’s the kid?” he prods, trying for casual.

“He’s doing better,” Gloria says, glancing down at her cup. It’s clear that there’s something that she’s holding back from him, but he’s not going to push, especially since it’s about Miles. He doesn’t want to talk about the kid behind his back—he’d rather talk to Miles in private.

“Is he talking to anyone?” he says instead.

“Yeah. There’s a bunch of counsellors in F.E.A.S.T., one of them was there that night.”

“Oh. Do they help?”

“A little bit. I think being around his family helps more,” Gloria says carefully, glancing at Peter. He nods at Ms. Morales.

“I understand that she helps advocate for the Spider-men.”

“You’re his family too, you know.”

Peter whips his head to look at her. Gloria has this look on her face as if she expected Peter to understand a deeper meaning he can’t quite get.

“Uh—that’s, I mean—”

“He looks up to you. You know that, right?”

Peter ducks his head, feeling slightly self-conscious. “Yeah, I know. I just…”

Gloria is patient, a small smile on her lips.

Peter shrugs helplessly, unable to articulate the encompassing feelings that come whenever Miles is involved. He cares a lot for the kid because, well, he’s _Miles._ He worries for the kid. He doesn’t know anyone who doesn’t think he’s loveable. It’s kind of impossible not to be endeared by him.

“It’s a lot, you know? With someone like Miles—I just… I don’t know—”

“You don’t think you deserve it,” Gloria says, and Peter blinks. That… That was it, actually. That hits the nail right on the head.

Peter huffs a laugh, “Yeah. You get it.”

Gloria’s smile softens into understanding. “It’s crazy to think a kid like him… that he’s doing incredible things. But also not, right? Like, if you saw the full picture, you’re not really surprised that Miles is who he is.”

Peter nods, giving the same smile right back.

“—it wouldn’t work like that, bro. I mean take a look at the Demons’ tech, you think something like that isn’t _magic?”_

“I get what you mean, but doesn’t magic also has it’s own science? I’m sure it just works on different laws like how physics and chemistry do.”

The teenagers’ argument catches the attention of everyone in the room as they walk in. Ganke grins, putting the box of soda cans over his head, “We got the drinks!”

There are half-hearted whoops from around the room and Miles laughs. Peter can’t help but notice how much… bigger Miles is. Not physically but his aura, the space he takes in the room, is encompassing—more confident and more sure of himself. It’s nice.

His big eyes are sparkling as they search the room and Peter swallows when those dark brown eyes land on him, the smile on his lips widening, changing his entire face—more bright and genuine.

Miles says something to Ganke, putting down his own two boxes of drinks (Peter finds it kind of funny that Miles is half Ganke’s size, but he’s carrying twice of what Ganke is. Bless superstrength.) before making his way over to Peter, the grin ever-bright.

“Hey, Pete! Gloria. You guys catching up?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, thankful for his tongue finally unsticking from the roof of his dry mouth.

Now that Peter has gotten the chance to regroup his thoughts with Gloria, he’s able to notice that subtle changes. Miles looks good. Better than he last saw him. There were some days, simply a result of being Spider-man, where Miles looked tired, haggard—still not used to the heavy grind. Peter knows the feeling of weighted expectations himself, and it’s clear to him that Miles has become intimately familiar with it too, especially after what happened last winter with Roxxon and the Tinkerer.

It’s an uphill battle, trying to compartmentalize his personal life and as Spider-man. It’s what Peter failed at—and still does sometimes, if he’s being honest. It makes something in Peter loosen—akin to unconscious worry—when he sees that Miles is managing it better than he ever did at his age. He supposes it’s just another one of the many things that Miles is already better at.

“Did you tell him about what’s happening at F.E.A.S.T.? We’re branching out!”

Peter grins. _God, it’s absolutely infectious._

“Yeah, she did, bud. It’s great to hear. Aunt May would’ve been proud of you.”

Miles ducks his head, glancing at the floor, his grin turning sheepish.

Ah, there it is. The familiar way Miles always shied away from praise. It brings back memories; when Miles was only fifteen, begging Peter to take him under his wing. Saying yes is probably one of the best decisions Peter has ever made, and they never looked back.

“Nah, man. It’s nothing.”

Probably should have done more to help with the self-doubt, though.

“ _Sure_ , it’s nothing,” Peter shrugs, a teasing glint in his eye. Miles laughs—a little self-deprecating—as he pats Peter’s arm, the flash of heat making Peter blink slowly—searing and distracting.

“I’ll leave you guys to it. Gotta help mom with other stuff. Don’t say anything about the anthill incident, you hear me, Gloria?” Miles says, narrowing his eyes at the woman in question, who only laughs and says, “No promises, Miles.”

The teenager only rolls his eyes and makes his way to the kitchen. Peter watches as Miles greets the other guests, something he said making them laugh. _See?_ How can anyone _not_ like the kid is a question Peter can’t comprehend.

“I did not expect that.”

Peter turns to Gloria, slightly narrowing his eye at her tone. “What?”

“It’s like that, huh?” Gloria says, the corner of her lips twisting into something knowing.

“Like what?” Peter cocks a brow.

“Miles,” Gloria says, pointing at Miles, then pushing the finger into Peter’s chest, “and you.”

Peter stops, staring at her. “What—What are you talking about?”

Gloria shrugs, sipping her drink. Her eyes move over to the kitchen, and she’s staring at the woman next to Ms. Morales.

“It’s the same way I look at Steph.”

Peter’s mouth goes dry again, a pit forming in his stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Steph. My girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend,” Peter says dimly, slowly, before his eyes go wide, understanding dawning upon him, “Ah, no, no, no—me and Miles? No, it’s not like that at all. He sees me like a—a mentor, an older brother. It’s _nothing_ like that.”

“I wasn’t talking about the way he looked at you. I was talking about _you_ looking at _him.”_

Peter flushes. “That’s just ridiculous, isn’t it? And not to mention, _inappropriate?_ ”

“To you? Maybe,” Gloria says, “To people who don’t know what Miles has been through? Yes, definitely.”

Peter swallows the lump in his throat, shaking Gloria’s statement off. “I mean, think about the age difference.”

Gloria cocks a brow at that, as if what he said just demonstrated exactly what was on her mind.

“Steph’s younger than me by six years.”

Peter’s ears burn.

She doesn’t say anything else, and Peter is standing there, feeling both put on the spot and also like he has to justify himself, to prove her wrong, but it feels like a trap in doing so—like if he said another word denying it, it would just dig him deeper into his grave.

A shrill ringing makes Peter jump, and he realizes it’s coming from him. He takes his phone out of his pocket. His face drops.

“Peter? Everything okay?”

Peter looks up from his screen, smiles at Gloria. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just have to take this. It’s the Bugle. You know me, work never ends.”

_Incoming: MJ_

Gloria grins back, nodding, letting him go.

Peter leaves the living area, feeling the back of his neck tingle. He moves down the hallway to the bathroom, knowing the place well enough. Thankfully, it’s unoccupied, so there’s no awkward waiting he has to do. He shuts the door behind him, locking it.

He stares down at his screen, worrying on his lip. He waits for it to ring one more time, before he takes a deep breath.

“Hello?”

“Hey, MJ.”

There’s an awkward pause. Thankfully, Peter’s terrible habit of not keeping his mouth shut kicks in before it becomes _too_ awkward.

“How’s everything at the Bugle? The assignment’s going okay?”

“Yeah,” the relief in her voice is palpable, “Robbie’s doubling down on me to get the information before the deadline. I’m not sure if he knows that dealing with the Maggia isn’t exactly a one and done task.”

Peter’s tone hardens, “You aren’t going to…”

“No, no, god no,” MJ says, laughter in her voice, “No violent confrontations for me. Silver’s got that part covered. She’s a teensy protective. Reminds me of some other reckless person I know.”

“Oh?” Peter says, light, “Can’t imagine who.”

“Uh-huh,” MJ says, drawn out.

Then Peter gets serious. It’s the elephant in the room, after all. And though he and MJ can bounce jokes off of each other endlessly, humor probably isn’t the right approach Peter should take right now. He takes a moment to hold back the comment on his tongue, but it comes out despite his better judgement. “So, it’s ‘Silver’ now, huh?”

There’s a moment of silence, before MJ sighs—it sounds wistful, a little resigned. “Yeah. It is. Still calls me Mary Jane, though. Don’t quite know how to get her to stop doing that.”

“Beats me. I don’t know how she makes the nickname ‘Spider’ sound like an insult. I’m impressed, honestly.”

MJ hums, and Peter knows she’s making this knowing expression, like she knows exactly what’s going through his head.

Then, she sighs again, “Listen, Pete—”

“There’s nothing you have to say, MJ, you know that, right?” Peter says, trying for reassuring. Based on the different type of sigh—more relieved than resigned—he got it right.

“It’s… It’s okay, really. We both know we saw this coming. Even months ago.”

“I know, Pete, but it’s still—I still feel guilty.”

“You did _nothing_ wrong, alright? You didn’t go behind my back or hid anything from me. We talked a lot about this plenty of times, you never felt me in the dark, and you’ve given me more than enough time to get used to it before you even _thought_ of asking her out.”

MJ laughs, and it sounds a little choked up. Peter bites his lip, wanting to comfort her but not knowing how.

“You’ve told Robbie about my two-week notice, right?”

“Yeah. He’s gonna miss you. Everyone in the office will. But I think they’ll miss the pictures you take more than anything else. I don’t think anyone has ever insulted him more than the time you _tried_ to make coffee for him.”

“It was drinkable,” Peter protests.

“I’ve got five interns and my boss who will say otherwise.”

They share a laugh that slowly tapers off into comfortable silence.

Things with MJ have been… a little rough for a while, especially after their work trip to Symkaria last year. They had planned the trip to be a way for both of them to reconcile, to reconnect and mend things between them. But things took a _very_ unexpected turn when it became very clear to Peter that someone caught MJ’s eye, a certain older monarch of Symkaria, the murderous mercenary herself.

It was weird, stuck in between the two women who were sharing meaningful glances in a way that Peter can’t help but be jealous of. Not even he and MJ looked at each other like that.

He’d spent the rest of the work trip just sitting by his phone, waiting for a phone call from Miles that never really came, rather than trying to do anything with MJ.

He let MJ come to him first, to talk to him. Peter needed time, obviously. He really did think he and MJ had a shot together, but after seeing the real connection between the two, _especially_ after Sable apologized for shooting at MJ when they first met—well, Peter may be stubborn as hell, but he knows when to back down.

“You’re happy, right?”

“Yeah,” MJ says, a little cautious first, then, much more firmly, “Yeah, I am. I really am. We’re… We’re taking it slow. Especially since work is keeping both of us busy.”

Peter covers the phonemic and breathes a long sigh. He’s still… raw, just a bit. But he’s not hurting, not anymore anyway. He’s had time to process, to get his own affairs in order. It’s half the reason why Peter fell off the face of the earth for the past two months.

“I didn’t leave anything in your apartment, did I?” Peter asks once he’s gotten his chest to stop tightening.

He braces a hand over the rim of the sink, staring at his own reflection. He’s looked worse, that’s all he can say.

“No. Well, if you count a couple of discarded Spider-web capsules and a Thor pajama shirt, then yeah.”

“I’ll swing by tomorrow, if I have time to pick it up,” he says with a louder-than-necessary laugh. He hopes it’s not as strained as the grin on his face feels.

The music outside changes and Peter pushes himself off the sink, just remembering he’s at a birthday party. “Hey, MJ, I’ll call you back, okay? I think they’re gonna blow out the candles soon.”

“Oh, it’s Miles’ birthday, isn’t it? Tell him I said hi and happy birthday.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’ll get him a card.”

“Sure. He’d love that,” Peter says absentmindedly, tapping a finger on the sink.

“He’s a good kid.”

Peter’s chest ebbs with something warm—feels himself grin, “Yeah. He is.”

“He’s a good influence on you, you know that, right?”

Peter frowns. There’s something about MJ’s tone he can’t pinpoint, it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand.

“Yeah,” he repeats, a little more uncertain.

“Don’t screw it up,” MJ says suddenly, cheerfully. Peter pulls back the phone to stare at his screen. “What?”

“Nothing. You’ll figure it out. Anyways, I got to go. Just received a new email from Robbie. We’ll talk soon, alright? And you’ll drop by tomorrow?”

“Yup. It was great talking to you, MJ,” Peter says softly, feeling a little less on edge now.

“Same here. Bye,” she sounds relieved, probably thinking the conversation went better than she’d expected, and Peter can’t help but think the same.

“Bye.”

Peter pockets his phone. He sighs, a weight on his chest sliding off. It felt good. To talk to MJ. They haven’t really talked in a while. The last few conversations they had were stilted and brief, the last one being Peter informing her about quitting his free-lance work at the Bugle. She supported him as best she could, probably feeling some semblance of guilt that Peter tried his best to alleviate from her.

He takes another moment to gather himself, to breathe deeply, placing both hands on the sink, looking up.

He looks… tired. Nothing that can be helped, he supposes. Especially what’s been happening now. Quitting a job and trying to look for another apartment isn’t easy. He can just move back into May’s house, but he’s going to need a new job before that can happen.

The music gets louder. He can feel the bass with his hands stuck to the sink.

He stretches his neck, unwinding the tension in his shoulders, then turns, opens the door and stops right in his tracks.

Miles is leaning against the wall in front of him, arms crossed, staring at the ground, pensive. Dark brown eyes flicker up and Peter is trapped.

Peter swallows hard, sticking a grin to his face. “MJ wishes you happy birthday. She said she’ll get you a card.”

Miles’ lips twitch at that, and he inclines his head. “Yeah. I heard.”

Peter winces. Right. Superhuman hearing.

“Uh, how much of that you hear?”

Miles doesn’t blink, staring at Peter with an intensity Peter can’t parse.

“Enough.”

_All of it._

“Right,” Peter mumbles, hand coming up to rub his neck, feeling heat crawl up.

It’s these rare, strange moments where Peter doesn’t know what to do; leaves him disoriented. He blames their dynamic. Peter is a mentor, or at least Spider-man is, so there’s a part of Peter that wants to keep a semblance of expectations for Miles. He wants to be a good role model for him, to show and guide Miles properly in their shared difficult and lonely job.

But when things get hard—for example, his interpersonal relationships and adult problems—it’s more difficult to keep up that perfect façade of _‘I’ve got everything figured out because I’m an adult’_. Even more so now that Miles is growing up and handling things _better_ than Peter.

He’s both in awe and kind of self-conscious about it. But that awe overshadows the insecurity when Miles doesn’t do a single thing other than say softly, “You okay, man?”

It’s said earnestly; with real concern and genuine care open in Miles’ expression, and Peter only feels himself grow hotter in the face.

Peter waves a hand, ready to deflect and avoid any conversation about this. “Nothing to worry about—”

“Don’t do that,” Miles says more quietly, as if afraid he’d get chastised for speaking up, but his expression doesn’t break, doesn’t crumble under Peter’s startled gaze.

“Don’t pretend that everything’s okay. You think I don’t notice but I do. You _know_ I do, man.” Miles looks like he’s about to say something that will make Peter’s head spin even more, but instead he says, “It’s cool, y’know. You don’t always have to be, like, perfect all the time.”

Peter is staring at him, eyes wide and brows ticked up. How this kid is just able to see through him, he doesn’t know. It’s kind of insane, really. He gets tripped up every time it happens, even though he’s known Miles for years.

And every time it happens, it only reminds Peter of the first time they met, as Peter and Miles.

_The weather is just another perfectly aimed kick to the teeth, Peter supposes. Not that he has any right to have an opinion on this day, on what it signifies. The only person whose opinion matters is the kid, a now fatherless teenager, looking lost as he stands over his father’s coffin. Peter has gotten familiar enough with guilt to not hesitate walking over to him._

_“I’m sorry for your loss.”_

_Big, brown shiny eyes land on Peter, and suddenly he’s trapped. There’s a flash of animosity, brows furrowing, gaze sharpening—a wild mix of curiosity too._

_“Do I know you?”_

_“I’m—Peter Parker. I was at City Hall when—” Peter fumbles, unsure. It doesn’t feel right saying this. He doesn’t know him, this kid._

_But he knew Jeff. And that’s enough to force the words out._

_“Look, I know you don’t know me but, I just wanted to say—”_

_“’I know what you’re going through.’”_

_Peter stutters. “Uh…”_

_“That’s what you’re going to say, right?” the kid, he’s staring at Peter now, eyes now back to the sullen look he wore during the entire service. But even without the darkened gaze, something about his stare peels Peter open, picking him apart, staring deeply into him, and Peter can’t help but feel uncomfortable, wrong-footed._

_“Or… ‘it all gets easier with time’. Or, ‘don’t worry… it’s—it’s part of God’s plan.”_

_“I—I’m sorry, I was just trying—”_

_“’—trying to help’.”_

_Big, big, brown eyes stare at him. Sad. Shiny. Feigned nonchalance._

_“I know.”_

Peter has always felt like he was on his toes around Miles, even from day one. Somehow, even now, Miles still has the ability to render him speechless.

He still hasn’t opened his mouth by the time Miles pushes himself off the wall, an odd smile on his face—almost sad, but not quite; sorry, maybe—and he reaches over to place a firm hand on Peter’s bicep, squeezing gently.

“I get it, Pete. I mean, I’m Spider-man too. Which makes it even crazier that you’re trying to pretend for me. It’s okay,” Miles says, all quiet, low, words meant only for Peter. His big, brown eyes meld into his—not piercing, but _drowning_ , and it’s like Miles picks up every secret etched in his chest and bared his own, showing the painful similarities between them.

Peter is able to smile, just a bit, because it’s _Miles._

“I’m sorry, man,” Miles says before Peter can open his mouth. And it’s genuine, laden with weight that Peter understands.

Peter shakes his head. “It’s fine. Really. MJ and I…”

He trails off, wondering how to convey his thoughts in a way that doesn’t paint MJ in a bad light. “We talked. Worked things out a long time ago. It was a long time coming.”

Miles searches his eyes. Then nods. But he doesn’t step away, or even stop touching Peter which is—which is

okay, not _normal._

It’s blaring alarms in his head, in a way that his instincts are screaming at him when there is something off, something different, but the rest of his head shushes it, because he’s not in danger. He’s _not._ Being touched by Miles for an unusually extended period of time does _not_ warrant that rush of adrenaline and heat injected into his veins. Maybe Miles just forgot, that’s all. There’s no reason to freak out, this is just Peter being weird again, this is him being _stupid—_

Then Miles does something with his face, blinking, warm expression flashing into something more uncertain.

“Miles?”

The teenager shakes himself out of it, and he fixes a grin on his face, finally— _finally_ dropping his hand.

(Peter’s hand twitches, a weird urge to force Miles’ hand back on his arm overtaking him for a brief, funky moment)

“It’s nothing. I was gonna ask if you wanted to talk, but they really are about to light the candles.”

Peter blinks, and the cacophony of sounds, of music and people talking, rush back in like a flood.

“Right.” Peter looks down the dim hallway, and Ms. Morales has taken out the candles, the box sitting on the counter likely holding the cake.

“C’mon.”

Miles then guides him back to the living room with a hand on his lower back which is—very unnecessary and uncharacteristic and remarkably _distracting._ So much so that by the time Miles has let go of him, by the time the candles have been lit and blown out and the cake is already being cut and passed around, does Peter realize he’s still fixated on the spot on his lower back that’s ablaze, heated and scarred in a way he can’t get his mind off of.

Miles looks up from where he’s passing Steph a plate of double fudge chocolate cake and catches Peter’s eyes and he _smiles._

It’s a sight.

Peter forces a grin, takes the slice of cake from Gloria’s hands and moves to the corner of the room, hunching his shoulders and munching on his piece.

Well.

That’s—That’s definitely new.

Huh.

He’s halfway through chewing thoughtfully on his first slice when Ms. Morales stand in the middle of the room, clapping her hands to get everyone’s’ attention.

“It’s time to open the gifts,” she announces. Miles laughs when he hears the whoops that Peter even joins in.

“Alright, alright,” Miles says, placating the guests, “You guys are way too eager to get your presents open.”

Miles takes his spot on the couch, with the guests, including Peter, circling around him. Ganke slides the chair of gifts in front of Miles, and the teen can only laugh again, delighted.

“Oh, man. You guys really didn’t have to!”

One of the guests, a girl around Miles age starts signing. Based on Peter’s rusty, minimal knowledge of ASL, he picks up ‘we had to’ and ‘deserve’. Peter gets the gist of it.

Miles only ducks his head, embarrassed, signing back at her, and says, “I’m serious, this is way more than I could have ever wanted.”

The girl only rolls her eyes fondly.

After much rankling from the guests and self-conscious deflecting from the birthday boy, Miles starts going through the gifts. He gets a new phone from his mom, which he thanks profusely her for.

Peter has seen the cracks and the falls that phone has taken. It’s incredible it’s still working.

Ganke got him a video game, Gloria and Steph an oversized graphic sweatshirt. He gets birthday cards, some cash, mugs, other trinkets like a cat chew toy—presumably for the tabby cat that Miles takes out for swinging every once and a while—Miles loves every single one of them.

Peter’s hands are clammy by the time Miles gets to his gift. “Who is this one from?”

Peter clears his throat, “Me.”

Miles’ eyes find his in a flash and pin him right there. Peter manages a grin, “Happy birthday, Miles.”

Miles looks down at the box in his hand, wrapped haphazardly in newspaper. Peter didn’t have gift wrapping paper anywhere, and he wasn’t about to spend six dollars on a roll for one gift. Besides, it’s not like Miles complained about his Christmas gift being wrapped in newspaper before.

Miles tears it open, a little slower than he did with the other gifts. Or maybe Peter is just way too on edge, time moving a little slower around him.

Surprise comes over his face first, then he whips his head up to find Peter in the crowd, something warm in those eyes. Then, he lights up like a Christmas tree and it’s the sweetest thing ever. “Oh sh—Pete! This is insane! I can’t _believe_ you got me this.”

Peter laughs softly, hand coming to rub at his neck where heat started to gather—everyone’s eyes now on him.

“You mentioned this model once. Said that your own pair got a little faulty sometimes,” Peter says too quickly, glancing down at the unopened box of Miles’ shiny new headphones. “You said it was affecting the quality of your music so—”

“So, you got me three hundred dollar headphones?” Miles says, incredulously, brown eyes wide.

Peter does the impression of a gaping fish for a moment. “It was on sale?” Peter offers, an awkward grin on his face. Miles is gaping too, but he’s more in disbelief and awe than anything else. The lingering attention makes Peter’s heart spike.

“You didn’t have to,” Miles says softly, eyes softer still. And something in Peter clicks.

Of course, Miles would realize it instantly. Being Spider-man is a payless job and being a newspaper photographer doesn’t pay _that_ well either. And Miles knows this. He’s seen Peter’s old rundown apartment, covered Spider-man shifts when Peter had overtime, offered his lunch to Peter when he skips another meal. Not that he can’t afford buying food, it’s just that takeaway and pizza—the costs rack up quickly, especially since he has to eat a lot because of his crazy metabolism.

Miles knows _exactly_ what lengths Peter has gone to buy something like this for him, and it’s clear that information overwhelms Miles—because he’s still speechless, staring at Peter like he’s—like Peter is something _deserving_ to be looked at like that.

Peter shrugs, trying to brush off how Miles’ words, said in a tone was an awful mix of dumbstruck and fond.

“You deserve it, man,” Peter says instead.

Miles keeps his eyes on him for a beat longer, before going back to his gift. Peter finds he can breathe the moment Miles looks away.

“It’s great,” Miles murmurs, then more loudly, “Thanks for all of your gifts, guys. All amazing.”

Laughter fills the air, and chatter comes right back.

Peter turns around, moving behind the rest of the guests to stray away from the crowd to eat his cake, ignoring the shiver down his spine. Usually, Peter isn’t this secluded or quiet. He’d be mingling with the guests, getting to know the other F.E.A.S.T. volunteers, bouncing from one person to another. But it’s just not Peter’s night. He’s not in the mood, wrung out from his Spider-man shift and work today.

But when he glances across the room, meeting Miles’ eyes, he supposes it’s not _too_ bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah! That's the first chapter. Don't worry, things will get better by the next chapter. Which will probably come out in like a couple more hours.  
> Tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s different,” Peter tries.
> 
> “Spider-man stays up late nights to build a superhero suit for his protégé. Peter Parker skips meals to save up for a birthday gift for a friend. Tell me what’s different about them, Pete.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy we're getting into this, digging _deep_ into Spider-man's baggage.  
> Also, dancing. Yes. Love that shit.  
> Have yall seen Miles doing the salsa on a New York sidewalk? That's the good shit.
> 
> Okay, let's goooo

> _I'm getting used to receiving_
> 
> _Still getting good at not leaving_
> 
> _I'ma love you even though I'm scared_

He’s munching on his last bite of cake, grinning at anyone who acknowledges him, strictly staying on the outskirts of the circle. He hardly interacts with anyone, content with keeping to himself. Besides, the cake is _really_ good and he’s not about to leave his precious plate behind.

The music changes, something with rapid-fire Spanish and lively drums, something that makes Ms. Morales laugh and Miles nudge at Ganke. After a vehement shake of Ganke’s head, Miles shrugs and offers a hand to his mom instead.

The rest of the guests move off to the sides, most of them putting their cake down to start dancing too, and Peter watches as Miles leads his mom to the empty space in front of the couch—the sofa flushed to the dining table so the living area is more spacious.

Peter grins, feeling the place brimming with life. Though, he’s unsure if it’s because of the guests or if it’s the Morales household.

He finds himself a little parched, so he finishes the last bit of cake and maneuvers his way through the living space to the kitchen, fetching a glass and water.

He’s on his second cup when he sees Miles moving his way and he’s—he’s _dancing,_ and Peter has never seen _Miles_ dance and now he’s wondering if there’s any more new discoveries in this night that will fry Peter’s brain because—

Miles is grinning, that’s the first thing Peter notices, his hips are swaying, feet elegant and steps smooth—

Peter can’t look away. Thankfully, his brain catches up fast enough that he doesn’t choke on his water, which probably would have killed Peter with embarrassment on the spot.

(—if the way Miles is moving hasn’t done the deed already.)

He’s stuck between laughing and staring, because this is _ridiculous—_ Miles is _ridiculous_. But Peter is sure he’s just delirious at this point.

Miles reaches out, an empty hand between them that Peter glances down at dumbly.

“C’mon, Pete.”

“C’mon what?”

Miles rolls his eyes, grinning wider. “Dance with me.”

Peter’s eyes shoot wide open, choking on air.

“Uh—I—I’m not much of a dancer—”

“I can teach you. I taught Ganke, and he seems to be enjoying himself.”

They look over to the other side of the room, where Ganke is currently doing the salsa with Ms. Morales, both of them laughing at something Gloria said.

Miles looks back at him and Peter—well—

“Now how can I say no to a smile like that?” Peter blurts, unprovoked. It only makes Miles snort, unbothered; as if Peter isn’t silently screaming in his head right now.

Miles flexes his fingers, waiting. Peter tries to wipe the twitching smile on his face because now Miles is shimmying his shoulders, bouncing his brows in the dumbest, most endearing way possible.

_Fuck it, right?_

“Alright,” Peter says, placing his hand into Miles’, “Show me what you got, Morales.”

“Slow your roll, Mr. Parker,” Miles snipes back, pulling Peter into the living space—tugging him in _way_ too close.

“Is this how you taught Ganke?” Peter says dryly, trying to ignore how warm and big Miles’ hands are in his, which are trying to get them into position.

Miles laughs at that, eyes skittering away from Peter and that’s—that’s pretty adorable actually.

“Nah. It mostly involved a lot of trying not to get him to bump into my furniture. Had to teach him in my bedroom on my sixteenth birthday party.”

Right. A birthday that Peter _did_ attend but had to leave forty minutes in because of Spider-man business. Back then, Miles hadn’t grown into himself yet; it was before all the Roxxon business. Back then, they weren’t close as they are now—doing things they wouldn’t have thought of doing back then.

For example, teaching Peter how to salsa.

“Must have been fun. He’s lucky. He doesn’t have to learn in front of everybody else.”

“I have a feeling that you’re stalling,” Miles muses instead of replying.

Peter jerks his head to the side, shrugging. “Caught me.”

Miles nudges Peter’s foot with his own. “You don’t mind if I lead, do you?”

Peter shakes his head, suddenly finding his tongue heavy like lead. It’s difficult to predict how he reacts around Miles—always a surprise around the corner every time he comes face to face with the younger man.

“Alright. There’s always the first count, we’ll start from there. We start with me stepping forward with my left, so you have to step back with your righ—no, no, _my_ left and your right.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Then, shift your weight.”

“Shift my weight?” Peter looks up at Miles, away from his feet.

“Like, onto your other hip. Just twist your hips. Like this. See?” Miles says, then demonstrates perfectly.

“Oh.”

“Okay, got that? Alright, then return back to base—no, no, don’t step forward—ah, that’s my foot, man—”

“Sorry, Miles—”

“It’s okay, just—yeah, move like that.”

Miles moves his other foot backward, and Peter follows it, moving forward to take a step.

“Just follow the beat, you know?”

Peter frowns, concentrating on following Miles’ feet, counting the beats in his head. But the way he moves is jerky, a split second too slow—not at all like how Miles is controlling himself, smooth and familiar, muscle memory.

Peter can fight his way out of ten guys with his eyes closed without a sweat, running on sheer muscle memory alone. This, though? Yeah, haha, _no._

“No, I do not _know.”_

Miles shakes his head, grinning, “Ah, the famous Spider-man, defeated by _salsa_.”

“It’s not like they give out dance lessons in Spider-man school.”

“Maybe now there can be. I’m already teaching. Maybe I’ll make a hologram version of me,” Miles jokes.

Peter steps on Miles’ foot again. Peter sighs, a touch frustrated and a lot embarrassed. Instead of waving it off again, Miles now shoots him a long look, furrows his brows as he stares at whatever expression Peter is wearing.

“You’re overthinking this.”

Peter jostles his hands, going for a _‘look at me’_ gesture while still holding Miles’ hands in his own. “Overthinking this? Of course, I am. I haven’t danced in _years_.”

“I don’t think pumping your fist and jumping in the club is considered dancing, Pete.”

Peter snorts. “Okay. You’re wrong about that one. Only went to a club once and my spider-senses went haywire. They did _not_ like that. Last time I danced was a terrible waltz at some winter fundraiser thing for Harry’s mom. Abso- _lutely_ hated it.”

“You’re not dancing the waltz now,” Mile points out. Peter stares at him flatly. “Okay, whatever, you don’t know how to dance, that’s fine. But dancing isn’t about counting the steps. It’s about feeling it, man. Just—relax.”

Peter moves forward on the next beat, and somehow it’s the opposite direction he’s supposed to go—shooting forward until his forehead cracks into Miles’, and Peter jolts back.

_Wow. Way to go, Parker. Give your dancing partner a concussion, will you?_

“Shi—Miles, sorry about that, are you okay?” But Miles is only laughing, he’s laughing so hard—and this whole situation is just so absurd, so out of their routine of normal—that it even puts Peter at ease, cracking his own smile in spite of the heavy wave of embarrassment.

“Oh my god, dude, that was so great. Pete, I don’t know how you do it, man,” Miles says, finally straightening up, laughter still in his voice. The smile he’s wearing broadens as he starts to laugh again, “Dude, you’re _so_ red.”

Peter frowns, ducking his head for a second, but quickly realizing that it will only point it out even more. “Am _not.”_

Miles hums, and Peter can feel his face grow hotter.

“Right. Sure. And I’m not Miles Morales.”

Peter pushes his hand forward in Miles’ grip, playfully nudging at the teenager.

“This is horrible. You’re horrible. You’re a horrible teacher,” Peter deadpans, but Miles only continues to laugh.

“C’mon, man, give it a chance.”

Miles looks at him then, looking down at Peter. Peter blinks.

When did the kid grow this tall?

“Miles, uh, how tall are you?” Peter says instead of going right back to dancing—because for one, he’s a little too embarrassed to really think, and two, only now does he does he allow himself to do a once-over of Miles.

Miles shrugs, “I don’t keep track. But my mom said I’ve been growing a lot the past summer.”

Peter’s throat dries up. He’s ninety percent sure that Miles is taller than him. Not by much, maybe around half an inch, but it’s only clear to Peter because he’s never felt like he had to look up at Miles until now—especially this up close.

Back when he first met Miles, the kid was short, only coming up to his eyes. It didn’t help that Miles had the habit of hunching over, making himself small to occupy as little space as possible. He had bad posture back then, but ever since he got bit and got his growth spurt, ever since he started training as Spider-man, Miles has gotten more aware of his body, dedicating himself to fix his own posture just because Peter pointed it out once.

Miles had the ability to fade into the walls, disappearing from people’s notice—and he’s _not_ talking about his superpower. Now, Peter can’t find it within himself to ignore Miles, because he’s just so _there._

He’s confident, tall—hell, he’s _taller_ than Peter now. And even though he hasn’t grown into his body yet, still slender and lithe, hands and feet a little too big, Peter just knows that Miles will fill out in muscle the longer he’s Spider-man, and one day even tower over Peter. He’s already so strong, he can go toe-to-toe with Peter if he gave it his all. Peter’s mind can only imagine how much stronger he’ll be once he’s Peter’s age.

The fact Peter is already acting like this, well—Peter isn’t sure how he’ll react once he sees Miles all grown up.

“Right.”

“Focus, Pete.”

“Yeah, focusing,” Peter says, straightening up, blinking at the fact he’s at Miles’ eye level now.

“Okay, we’ll try this again, alright? At least try to follow my lead, cause I swear, Pete, you’re really making me look like a terrible leader,” Miles says, squeezing Peter’s hands.

“It’s not on purpose,” Peter protests, now a little flustered.

Miles gives him another long silent look, then says, “Relax. Just imagine that you’re—um, imagine that you’re swinging in New York. I don’t know about you but every time I swing, there’s almost a rhythm to it. It’s the same as dancing. Just trust your gut.”

“Trust my gut,” Peter says slowly. Miles only grins, nodding.

“Is this your revenge? From the time I almost dropped you when you first started swinging?”

“Maybe. Only difference is that you won’t die.”

“I’d disagree,” Peter says under his breath.

“Focus on me, Pete,” Miles says, leaning down to stare into Peter’s eyes. “Just focus on me.”

Peter obeys, keeping his gaze trained right on Miles.

Miles slips his hand out of Peter’s, sliding it over Peter’s wrist to slowly bring it over his heart, not once breaking eye contact. Miles’ heartbeat is strong under his fingertips, steady and quick.

Miles grins then, and he moves forward.

Peter’s feet follow perfectly, trapped by Miles’ smile and delight. God, this kid.

Sometimes Peter forgets how dark Miles’ eyes are, a deep endless brown, because of how _bright_ Miles is at heart. Those eyes suck Peter right in, swallowing him whole, and he wants to be—to be enveloped by Miles’ presence, warm and comforting, open and vulnerable. But Miles himself is so bright and warm, exciting and a flurry of restrained youthful energy. Miles is _so_ fun, so adorable and always so enthusiastic.

The contradicting elements that make up Miles makes Peter’s head spin, wondering how a kid is just—so much.

“You’re doing it, Pete!”

Peter blinks and glances down. He’s mirroring Miles, feet falling at the beat, shifting his weight and meltling, allowing Miles to lead and take control. (—It scares Peter how easily he lets him.)

“Oh. I am,” Peter says dimly, before he finds himself smiling, “Oh wow, I _am._ Guess you’re not such a bad teacher.”

Miles shrugs, and without even a warning, yanks Peter into his space, and Peter can do nothing but follow—trusting Miles wholeheartedly—spinning him around until they’re chest to chest. And Miles is—he’s grinning, amused, warmer. “Nah, I’ve got a good student.”

“You’re giving me too much credit,” Peter breathes, his chest a little tight. “You’re amazing, Miles.”

Peter expected him to quip back, to retort or deflect, but Miles only stays silent, staring at him. It’s a levelling look that sobers Peter right up.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Peter asks, internally berating himself for the crack in his voice.

“You’re brushing things off. I know why you do it,” he speaks softly, as if trying not to spook Peter off. But Peter can’t help but tense up anyway, that swell of self-conscious and the heat of being _seen_ returning with a vengeance.

“Okay. Tell me why I do it. Psychoanalyze me, doc,” Peter says lightheartedly, swaying to the beat as Miles spins him out, but Miles still keeps a tight leash, not letting Peter get so far away. Peter realizes his mistake when determination flashes across Miles’ face.

“You downplay what you do. All the time. Brush off my compliments and what others say about you. You listen to Jonah on a daily basis and to the other fifty terrible adjectives that don’t describe you at all.” Miles is unrelenting, words hitting Peter like a freight train, tone brooking no argument as he smoothly leads Peter across the dance floor, hips swaying perfectly. “You don’t let yourself catch a break. Never let yourself have good things. Man, it’s _frustrating_.”

He asserts his point by tugging Peter abruptly, letting the man trip over his own feet and bump into his chest. Peter is utterly _helpless._

“You look after me and everyone else. You care so much for others you don’t take time to take care of yourself. You’ve always got my back, you protected me when I didn’t know what to do. You _trust_ me, Pete. And you always take the blame. I know that you don’t think you’re perfect, yet you always try to be, _especially_ when you’re wearing the mask.” Miles words are quickly spoken but firm, as if they’ve been weighing on him for a while.

“You sound like you’re describing yourself,” Peter mutters, eyes fixated on Miles, who only shakes his head. “I’m serious, man.”

Miles lets Peter spin out, before tugging and spinning him back in. Only this time, his hands slide up to Peter’s elbows and hold him there, grip firm and fingers strong.

“Hell, Pete,” Miles says, low, eyes big and seeing, “You still blame yourself for dad’s death.”

“Miles—” Peter rasps, recoiling and trying to pull away because this—this is uncharted territory. They _never_ talk about what happened in City Hall, how they met in the first place; a rule that was instituted by Miles himself through silent looks and unspoken begging at the beginning of their friendship. And Miles is wielding it, breaking that rule without a backward glance just to prove a point to Peter.

Miles only grips on him tighter, dipping into his superstrength, locking him in place. His eyes are deep, a certain type of desperation clinging to those chocolate irises—clear in the dip in his brow.

“You have _never_ forgiven yourself for that. Yet, you go on and pretend as if it doesn’t hurt you.”

_You think I don’t notice but I do. You know I do, man._

Peter closes his eyes, something simmering just beneath the surface. He has to give credit where credit is due. It’s not to insult Miles or anything of the sort, he just… never expected that Miles was this observant. Heaven knows Peter wasn’t at Miles’ age.

“Miles, it’s because that isn’t about _me_.”

“You’re doing the thing again. You’re deflecting.”

Peter shakes his head. “This is me just stating the facts. Whatever I felt back then or right now, it doesn’t matter because it was _you_ who lost someone. I’m just the guy who failed to stop it from happening.”

Miles is shaking his head before Peter gets to finish his sentence, something fiery in those depths of brown. “No, Pete. You’re the guy who avenged my dad and took me in when I had no one else to turn to.”

“You gave me—” Miles’ fingers dig into Peter, “you gave me something to ground myself with, gave me a purpose again, remember?”

“Bringing you to F.E.A.S.T. was MJ’s idea,” Peter adds clumsily, the words coming unbidden.

“I’ll thank her for that,” Miles cracks a smile for a brief moment, before turning serious again. “But she wasn’t the one who looked after me _after_ I joined F.E.A.S.T..”

“Don’t say it was me, Aunt May was the one who did the heavy lifting.”

Miles groans in frustration, gently knocking his forehead against Peter’s, eyes fluttering closed. Peter’s short-winded. It’s tender, intimate; feelings that Miles didn’t intend to give. It’s just—it’s just Peter being stupid.

“This is _exactly_ what I mean, man, you’re really just proving my point here.”

“And what’s the ‘point’?” Peter manages around his very inept mouth.

“You’re too humble for your own good, literally. Like, _crazily_ so. I mean, it’s to the point you don’t care if you get hurt.”

Peter shakes his head, “It’s all a part of the job, Miles.”

“How about Peter Parker? I’m not only talking about Spider-man here.”

Miles opens his eyes, and Peter finds himself dazed. Miles is right before him, splaying Peter open, shoving it in his mentor’s face that he knows Peter better than Peter knows himself, eyes wide and so, so young yet _so_ brilliantly insightful. It’s almost unnerving.

The cherry on top is how _Miles_ he is about it, coming across as that youthful, eager teenager in his nonchalance about this whole bizarre, baggage-heavy conversation. Miles has always been smarter than he looks, and Peter is stuck between wanting more of it and running far, far away from that vice-like grip of vulnerability.

(—the type of vulnerability that only very few people can dig into, his mind helpfully adds.)

“That’s different,” Peter tries.

“Spider-man stays up late nights to build a superhero suit for his protégé. Peter Parker skips meals to save up for a birthday gift for a friend. Tell me what’s different about them, Pete.”

Peter looks up, and he knows it’s a losing battle anyway. Miles is staring down at him, a determined set to his jaw(—that’s strong and sharp and—) and a grim look to his eyes that Peter has hardly seen before. Maybe once or twice.

_“Do I know you?”_

“You’re not just a friend, you know,” Peter says, and regrets it immediately because Miles’ firm expression cracks, brows flying, fingers digging harder into Peter’s muscles that only twitch in response. Peter has never wanted to melt into the ground more than now.

“You’re not just some buddy of mine, you know that, right?” Peter says, backtracking almost, going for lighthearted and blasé, but it’s difficult considering the weighted words falling straight out of his stubborn mouth.

“I’d call Gloria a friend. Even call Ganke one too. But you’re—” _everything to me._

“You’re special to me, Miles.” And Peter means that wholeheartedly. The way they met is not something that can be looked back fondly upon, and the way how things turned out so shortly after that—with Aunt May—their bond went deep past easy comradery, past casual conversation in the hallways of F.E.A.S.T. so quickly. They have saved each other’s lives more than once, even _before_ Miles became Spider-man—then countless times more _after._

They went past the awkward phase of being acquaintances, having seen too much of each other’s pain to put up any pretenses, and jumped straight into covering each other’s backs without a blink, loyal and unwavering. That bond only deepened when Miles jumped onto Peter’s ceiling, and Peter was finally able to share his secret to someone who _understands._

Miles slowly unwinds, tension bleeding out of him.

His eyes are bright, poignant in a way that glues Peter’s feet in the spot. Not that he can move even if he wanted to, Miles’ hands are a cage around him.

“I have something to tell you,” Miles says instead of anything that Peter expected. At the tone of his voice, Peter immediately goes on his guard. “You’ve been wanting to talk to me the whole night. Is something wrong, Miles? Are you hurt?”

Miles only cracks a smile, but it’s dim and uncertain. He shakes his head carelessly, squeezing Peter’s arms one last time before dropping them back to hold Peter’s hands. “It’s not like that. No one’s in danger.” Miles frowns. “I think.”

Peter nods, telling his blaring instincts to _shush._ “Later? When some of them leave?”

Peter doesn’t move until Miles does, even if some part of him goes cold when Miles pulls away completely. “Uh, actually—can we do it soon? It’s kinda important. Just have to tell you in private.”

The music hasn’t stopped yet, but their dance is over.

Peter’s heart is in his throat, the fear crawling back, slithering up his spine.

“Sure. Whatever you want, Miles.”

There’s that long look again. Considering. Calculating. Warm.

_Christ._

Miles nods to the hallway. Peter follows dutifully, watching as Miles stops by to kiss his mother on the cheek, greeting the others before leaving the circle of guests. Peter keeps a safe distance behind Miles as they enter his room. Peter tries not to notice how Miles locks the door behind him.

“Fire escape. Don’t want Ganke to eavesdrop,” Miles says simply, a little awkward. Peter nods stiffly, keeping his untrusting lips sealed, and he feels like he’s standing on a stage, putting on a face for an audience that only has Miles in it.

Peter slips through the small window in a practiced move, familiar with tight openings more than the average person.

It’s a little humid outside, though mid-August isn’t as bad as July—so, small mercies.

Miles follows him, and immediately, Peter notices the tight space in the fire escape. He can probably stand an arm’s length away from Miles—if he leaned back forty-five degrees over the ledge.

But it’s not so bad when Miles joins him standing behind the railing, shoulder to shoulder as they rest their elbows on the metal rail. Peter can simply turn to his front instead of facing Miles head-on.

There’s not much of a view, with Miles’ window facing the back of another apartment block. But he supposes that’s good. Miles can slip in and out in his suit unnoticed.

Plus, it gives them much more privacy than Peter could have expected. Good for Spider-man business.

“Pete.”

“Yeah? What’s up?” Peter starts off easy. He truly has no idea what Miles is going to say, and the only thing he can do is listen and hope for the best. Hopefully, no one is kidnapped or anything.

Miles opens his mouth, frowning a bit.

“Oh, wait, Miles,” Peter blurts, realizing something. His hand finds his pocket and he pulls out the gadget. “I got you something.”

“Dude, as if the headphones weren’t enough,” Miles huffs in disbelief. Peter shushes him. “Take these as a present from Spider-man. The headphones from Peter. Capisce?”

Miles only rolls his eyes, but then they widen at what is presented in Peter’s palm.

“Is that—”

“Your new webshooters? Yup,” Peter says proudly. See, this—this is where Peter is more comfortable, more at home. Away from other people, just him and Miles alone as they talk shop.

“Did you—”

“Add the other web-shooter combinations? _Yup_ ,” Peter grins, a little giddy, mouth running before he can think. “Finally had the time to make these from scratch. Made the adjustments, calibrated them for your weight. I even upgraded the web formula so there’s more storage for more web fluid, so there’s space for another cartridge for every web combination. Oh, and I finetuned the webshooter design too so it’s lighter for you.”

Miles is gaping now, eyes wider than Peter has ever seen them.

“It’s pretty much an upgraded, adjusted version of my own webshooters. Don’t worry, though, I already started manufacturing my own shiny, new webshooters. Should be able to get them done by next week—”

“ _Pete.”_

He looks up and Miles looks—he looks distraught, and worry seizes Peter’s chest. “Is—Is something wrong? I mean, I know you’ve been waiting for a while for the new webshooters but—”

“No, no, Peter,” he twitches at the use of his full name, “no, you did nothing wrong, man. Nothing at all. This is all just—”

Miles makes a noise in the back of his throat—awfully close to a whimper—and Peter straightens up, brows furrowing. Miles looks—he looks overwhelmed, frustrated once again, his expression indecipherable because Peter can’t figure out what Miles is thinking about. His face is screwed up, but his eyes are—they’re—

“That’s part of the problem,” Miles strangles out, high and delirious. Peter can hear the metal railing under Miles’ hand creak.

Peter only frowns. Problem? Is there something wrong with the webshooters? He’s pretty much perfected them over the past two months; Peter lost the number of hours spent making them.

“Why? You don’t like them? I’m not sure what else I can do to upgrade these at the moment but I can go back to the drawing board and figure out—”

“I’m not talking about the webshooters, Peter,” Miles says, low. Peter can’t help but stare at Miles. He’s using his full name. It’s only twice, granted, but that’s still unusual for Miles.

“The webshooters are perfect,” Miles says under his breath, creeping closer, a hand coming up to lay over the gadget in Peter’s hand, but he doesn’t pick it from Peter’s open palm, just keeps it there.

His fingertips are hot against Peter’s pulse, and Peter really hopes he doesn’t notice the uptick in his heartrate. But that’s a hopeless thought—Peter himself knows how sensitive Miles can be.

 _Christ,_ he can probably even hear it.

“You really have no idea, do you?” Miles says, eyes coming up from their touching palms to meet Peter’s.

“About what?” Peter asks, watching as emotions flicker over Miles’ face—strong, vibrant emotions that only a teenager would be terrible at hiding. Even so, Peter can’t pick them apart, can’t catch them quick enough to understand anything, to predict what’s going on in Miles’ head.

Then, Miles slumps, as if a wall within himself crumbled despite his better judgement.

Miles’ other hand comes up, other fingers also tracing Peter’s wrist—electricity shooting up Peter’s arm and singing down his spine. And it’s not Miles’ venom power (—he’s been stung by that once before, never again—), it’s just Peter’s brain becoming absolutely unhinged.

Then Peter—Peter _can’t_ ignore the way Miles is touching him, so reverently, so gently, as if Peter is made of something precious. And Peter has no idea what to do.

Miles is quiet, so soft and low that it’s only because of Peter’s sensitive ears does he hear it.

“You’re incredible, Pete.”

Peter’s sharp intake of breath makes Miles’ grip tighten, locking him there just like he did on the dance floor.

The _way_ that Miles says it—it’s making Peter’s head spin, making him confused, giving too many ideas, _bad_ ones especially; ideas that will fracture Peter’s world, that will break his heart the longer those thoughts linger, that slither past his walls and hook into the chasm of his chest without mercy—

“You hear me?”

Peter’s ears are ringing.

“You’re amazing, _spectacular—”_ Miles cracks a soft, self-aware, nervous chuckle, “—on every level, Pete. Not Spider-man. But you. _”_

Peter’s breath rips out of his stuttering chest when Miles tugs him into his space, crowding up against Peter without an ounce of shame despite the nervous tremors that Peter can feel through their connected hands.

“You’re unreal, man, in the best way possible. I can’t describe it,” Miles says, and suddenly Peter can see the sharp vulnerability in Miles’ eyes up close, so, so sweet and earnest and so enthusiastic.

So _Miles._

“Whas’going on,” Peter murmurs, overwrought and dizzy, words jumbling and difficult to say.

Peter can hear the click of Miles’ throat, and he’s unsure if its because he’s so close or if it’s because every single one of his sense are so in tuned to Miles.

“Please, _please_ tell me I’m not reading this the wrong way.”

Miles hands are on his—they’re on Peter’s face, he thinks, but he might be wrong because everything is muddled but the outline of Miles, who’s smiling, bright and hopeful and nervous—oh, Peter wants to get rid of that anxiety, that terrible expression on Miles’ handsome face, take it away from him, take it to the farthest corners of the earth of Miles never has to feel that way ever _again—_

Lips lock over his and Peter is _gone._

* * *

“—eter? Pete, c’mon, man, you’re scaring me.”

Peter blinks his eyes open. Miles isn’t smiling anymore. That’s horrible.

“I think I blacked out,” Peter says blankly.

Miles lets go of him—Peter’s chest goes cold—and Miles isn’t smiling, he’s _not_ smiling and it’s Peter’s fault.

Peter knows he can trust his instincts when he’s in danger, he trusts his body to keep himself safe in Spider-man situations. However, he’s learned over the years that his instincts are goddamn _useless_ in Peter Parker situations like this. But Peter’s brain isn’t working at the moment—it’s only screaming at him that Miles isn’t smiling and he has to fix that immediately.

Peter’s other hand shoots out, grabs Miles button-up blouse with an embarrassing amount of greediness and brings Miles back to Peter’s space, where he _belongs._

Those lips touch his again and Peter is finally able to feel it properly, even if he’s just on the cusp of blacking out again. They’re soft, pliable and eager under his own and Miles is _kissing back—_

God, Miles smells so good, and he feels good against Peter’s hands too—skittering nervousness melting away until Miles is putty in his hands, leaning in, enthusiastic hands grasping Peter everywhere, over his waist, up his back, in his hair, blunt finger nails running over his scalp and Peter makes a _mortifying_ noise—

They whip away from each other. Miles is—

“What the hell,” Miles breathes, eyes wide, cheeks a deep red—something that Peter has _never_ seen before.

Miles is suddenly too close, pressing up against Peter—warm and insistent—and Peter has made a mistake.

But Miles isn’t pushing him away, isn’t pulling back to take away that warmth in Peter’s chest again. He’s _smiling_ and his lips are red, shiny. Peter did that. Peter likes them like that.

_No._

Peter flinches. He barely feels Miles gripping tighter at him.

There is no _liking_ anything. Not with Miles. Not like this.

“Pete.”

“Miles,” he chokes out, and he’s cracking, he’s crumbling to pieces because he likes Miles, but liking Miles that way isn’t right, it shouldn’t have happened, but it did, it _did_ —happened right under his fucking nose and smacked him over the head with that horrible realisation on that faithful day two months ago—

_“Pete! You’ve got to chill out—”_

_“How can chill out when there’s a_ fire _in your mother’s kitchen—oh god, your mom is going to kill me—”_

_Miles snorts then yelps, both of them jumping away from the sudden plume of flames. Miles’ instincts are better than Peter’s, grabbing the fire extinguisher out of Peter’s hands, aiming and releasing the white foam, pressing on the nozzle until every flame is out._

_A beat of silence._

_There’s a spark, and Miles entinguishes it faster than Peter can even blink._

_“Well,” Peter pipes up._

_Miles looks up at Peter._

_“That went well.”_

_There’s another beat of silence._

_Then Miles starts laughing, starts laughing so hard he keels over, the heavy extinguisher thumping onto the floor as it slips out of his hands, probably high on the spike of adrenaline and the coffee already running in his veins._

_Peter turns. There’s a smear of black soot over Miles’ cheek, his fingers sparking with venom-yellow, tiny splatters of white foam on the collar of his old sweatshirt—ratty but warm and comfortable._

_It just clicks._

_Miles is—_

_Beautiful,_ his mind supplies, and that word still repeats even as concern starts to fill in the edges of the young man’s expression.

It was so stupid—foolish, really—of him to think he wouldn’t fall in love with someone like Miles.

“Pete.”

Peter grabs onto Miles, desperate and clingy. He’s breathless, shaking, when he says against Miles’ lips, “I don’t want to leave, Miles. I don’t wanna run and leave you alone but—”

Peter gasps, the sudden shock of fear ripping a hole in him—fear that reminds him of salty tears and Aunt May’s resigned expression—

“I might, I _might_ —because you matter too much to me, Miles, too damn much, and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do."

Miles surges in, holds Peter so tight it almost hurts. He starts muttering his name, loving and so full of softness that the fear only grows into a tidal wave. _Peter, Pete, man, it’s okay, just breathe, Pete, please._

“I don’t want to leave you, but I want to run—shit, Miles, I want to,” Peter repeats, and he doesn’t know if he’s making sense anymore because at this point, he’s babbling nonsense, trying to convey a mountain’s worth of baggage into broken sentences.

Then, Miles pulls away to look at Peter, and he goes from worried straight to crestfallen. Miles is shaking, and his voice trembles, “Hey, hey—Pete, c’mon, man, don’t cry. You’re gonna make me cry too.”

He only comprehends the wetness on his cheeks when Miles rubs his thumbs over them.

“C’mon, Pete, breathe. You’re freaking out. Relax.”

Miles’ soothing voice, grounding him—Miles is an anchor, he’s someone _safe._ Peter just needs to shut the goddamn alarms off in his head, he just has to listen and breathe.

“Damn, Pete. This did not go the way I expected.” Miles tightens his arms, pressing up against Peter— Peter siphons the heat greedily, like a depraved man.

“I thought you were going to yell or push me away. Not have a complete freak out,” Miles says, a hint of a teasing tone in his voice, but the concern in his touch and face overshadow it completely.

Then, Peter realizes that Miles is still holding him, still touching him.

It hits Peter, very, very late that Miles actually _kissed_ him.

“You kissed me,” Peter says dumbly, through teary eyes, more confused now than earth-shatteringly afraid.

“You kissed me back,” Miles says, equally confounded.

“Why?”

“Because I like you. Like, a lot. What about you?”

“Because you weren’t smiling anymore,” Peter says. And Miles’ brows shoot up.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“You kissed me. I blacked out, and I think—I assumed you didn’t like that. So, you stopped smiling. Wanted to see it again. Guess it made sense at the time.”

Miles stares at him for a moment longer, before a grin, blinding and infectious takes over his face.

“There it is,” Peter breathes, stunned, and he cracks a grin of his own when Miles ducks his head.

“See? Much better. I mean, there’s very few things that can beat that,” Peter is babbling, mind running on autopilot.

“Are you okay?” Miles says, a mix of confusion and concern.

“To be honest, I’m not sure.”

There’s a long bout of silence that weighs on both of them. Peter knows that Miles has something on his mind. He’s proven right not even fifteen seconds later.

“I think we’re going to have to talk about what happened there.”

Peter winces.

“There’s something going on with you, Pete.”

Peter manages a weak twitch of his lips, shaking his head lightly. _Not now._

Miles swipes a comforting hand down his back, nodding.

“Do you like me?”

Peter slowly looks up at Miles, who’s face is screwed up, uncertain. And Peter can only sigh.

There’s so many things unspoken, so many things bundled up in Peter’s chest that he’s unsure if he wants to show Miles. But, damn it, if he’s going to make Miles upset on his _birthday._

“Yeah,” Peter says, a little resigned, his heart squeezing when he sees Miles light up, like it’s the greatest gift he’s ever given him. “I really like you, Miles.”

Miles searches his eyes, and his beaming smile flickers. “But… it’s complicated?”

“That’s the bingo,” Peter says, sighing softly.

Miles pulls away a bit, leaning back just enough to rest against the railing. Peter lets him, dropping his hands at his sides, only just realizing that Miles’ webshooters are still in his hands. And he takes that opportunity to slide his hands into his pockets, keeping himself restrained, away from Miles.

But Miles, obviously, reads him like a book. “Oh no, you don’t,” he mutters, before grabbing Peter’s wrist out of his jean pocket, sliding his palm over Peter’s and interlocking their fingers.

“Oh,” Peter says dumbly.

Miles looks a little smug, but his expression melts back into one of contemplation, going back to thinking.

“Do you still… do you _not_ want to be with me?”

Peter purses his lips, glancing away from Miles, whose fingers twitch in his grip.

“Again, complicated, Miles. Many things we gotta talk about, things we both have to be very clear about before even _thinking_ of doing anything.”

And _of course_ , Miles is Miles, and that means he’s perfect and too good for Peter because immediately, he gains that determined set to his jaw, eyes wide and voice eager—awfully reminded him of that same exuberant eagerness back when he first started training Miles. “Of course, Peter. Anything you need.”

Peter stares at him a moment longer, before he melts, sighing as he rubs his temple with his unoccupied hand. “Damnit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Me,” Peter says wryly, rubbing a hand down his face, landing his gaze on Miles. “I can’t stop thinking about you. And that’s a me problem. A _big_ one.”

Peter wants to curse under his breath when all he sees is Miles sudden shudder, the sharp intake of breath.

“Um… is that… is that really a problem? Sounds like the opposite to a problem to me.”

“It’s subjective,” Peter says absentmindedly, carelessly— _stupidly, recklessly—_ as he starts to rub his thumb over Miles’ skin.

Miles is staring at him, dazes and a touch awed.

Peter is crossing over so many goddamn lines it’s ridiculous. And Miles isn’t stopping him. He doesn’t know which part to feel worse about.

“Okay, okay, uh,” Miles utters his breath, sounding a little frantic.

“Okay, this is the plan,” Miles says suddenly, facing Peter with bright eyes, standing up to his full height. “Let’s just pretend for the next couple of minutes that you didn’t freak out.”

Peter blinks at him.

“Let’s just pretend that both of us don’t have any baggage because this tension is killing me and it’s my birthday today, damn it.”

Peter chokes on a laugh.

“I’m going to ask you out and you gotta say—well, you don’t have to say yes because no pressure—”

“Yes,” Peter cuts him off. It’s Miles’ turn to blink at him.

“Right,” Miles says, lips fighting off a grin, “that’s out of the way.”

Peter is about to mention the fact that the date won’t happen until _after_ their talk.

But, as luck would have it, police sirens pop their little bubble. Miles groans, and even Peter rolls his eyes.

“I’ll take this one,” Peter says first, resigned. He’s not going to let Miles go on patrol on his eighteenth birthday, like he had to.

He lets go of Miles’ hand and starts to pull his button-up plaid shirt over his head, revealing his suit underneath. There’s a faint choked noise from Miles and Peter can’t help but heat up, a little self-conscious—which only worsens when he starts to shimmy out of his jeans, kicking off his shoes, trying desperately to _not_ look at Miles.

“You sure? I can help,” Miles says belatedly, eyes purposefully glued on the brick wall opposite them.

Peter takes the mask from his jean pocket and jumps over to the outside of the fire escape balcony, standing right in front of Miles on the other side of the railing. “No, stay here, have fun.”

Miles looks at him then, but his eyes are still blown wide, entirely pitch black. Peter finds it hard to speak. He fumbles to put his mask over his head, rolled up to his nose. “You’ve earned it. Besides, you can’t have a birthday party without the birthday boy.”

“True,” Miles laughs, and then he—Miles walks right up to Peter, doesn’t even have to lean any closer before he’s pressing a kiss on Peter again. Peter can’t stop himself, melting into the kiss seamlessly. Miles is inexperienced, it’s clear, but it also seems like he doesn’t want to _seem_ inexperienced. He keeps his tongue away, keeping the kiss safe and a little chaste, almost as if he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by going all in.

Then, Miles’ hands come up once again, one on Peter’s jaw, another pushing the mask up a little to entangle his fingers in Peter’s hair, to scratch his scalp again and, oh _god—_

Peter pulls him in, kisses harder. He guides Miles, pulls back to go slower—one hot brush of Miles’ lips against his, then another, then he closes the distance again.

This time, Miles is a little less shy. He presses in when Peter pulls, melts when Peter takes control; and then Peter grips Miles hips a little tighter (when his hands wandered, he hasn’t the faintest clue) which only—which only makes Miles pull back to gasp, part his lips and because Peter just can’t help himself, takes the opportunity with greedy hands—

Peter finds out that Miles tastes just a little sweeter than the chocolate cake they both had.

And that Miles makes the most _incredible_ sounds—

Miles is the one who pulls away. Peter can only be grateful. He doubts he could have stopped himself.

Miles isn’t panting, but it’s close. His normally bright brown eyes are unfocused, half-lidded.

“You can join me next time,” Peter murmurs.

“Huh?”

“The patrol.”

Miles blinks down at Peter. Slowly, as if still in a trance, he pulls down Peter’s mask, arms dropping to his sides. Peter lets go of Miles too.

“It’s a date, then,” Miles says, a wide grin slowly making it to his face.

Peter can only tilt his head, feeling himself smile back. “Huh. I guess so.”

“A Spider-man date. That’s a first,” Peter says.

“Firsts are good.”

Peter glances at Mile’s lips, red and plump and shiny, and he clears his throat, voice sounding a little too hoarse, like it’s scraped out of his throat, “Yeah, I agree.”

He’s turning in the direction of the police sirens when Miles blurts out, “Wait—actually, why don’t you come back? Later?”

Peter turns back, stock still.

“I mean—only if you want to,” Miles trails off, nervous. “Besides, you’re leaving your clothes here.” Miles gestures to the pile of clothes next to his own feet.

Peter doesn’t mention how Miles can just bring those clothes by his apartment tomorrow.

But this is completely out of Peter’s control at this point. Whatever Miles wants—Peter only wants to give in.

“Good point,” Peter is unable to recognize his own voice. Miles’ eyes go unfocused again. And Peter realizes his hasty mistake, backtracking.

“Actually, uh—”

“Nothing has to happen,” Miles cuts in, face open, soft. “We can just talk.”

Peter closes his eyes for a moment.

Miles is right. This is the chance for them to talk it out, because at this point, Peter has a strong feeling that both of them are too far gone to turn back to what they were before Miles _kissed_ him.

 _Miles_ kissed him.

Miles kissed _him._

“Okay. We can talk. Anything you want,” Peter says.

Peter goes to leave, pauses, then turns right back around, rolling up his mask to place a swift kiss on Miles’ lips.

 _Christ._ Peter is already getting way too familiar.

“That’s my line,” Miles mutters, before gently nudging Peter’s chest with his palm, jerking his head to the exit of the alleyway.

“Go on, Pete. New York needs your skinny ass.”

Peter laughs, surging in one last time—he swears it’s the last—to kiss Miles on the cheek, unable to stop himself because Miles is smiling.

Peter does his mock salute, before leaning back and letting gravity take him back, not once breaking eye contact with Miles until he shoots out a web, swinging into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, Peter is really just gone on Miles it's kinda pathetic.
> 
> Ngl, I probably haven't written this much in such a short amount of time (I think I finished writing this in like 2 days right after I posted my last fic, not including editing tho)  
> It's totally because of the lack of Miles/Peter content. I want to read them so badly but this is such a rarepair that there is nothing on these two.  
> Hmm. Maybe it would give me a chance to explore some fanfic tropes I haven't written before. 
> 
> Anyways! I hope you enjoyed that!! Drop any feedback! 
> 
> (Psst, if there's even one comment on this chapter, I will post the 3rd update asap, just so yall know) <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me, Pete, what do you see?”  
>    
>  _Someone I want._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! Happy New Year's, guys!!!!  
> Here we are, in the last angsty chapter of this fevered fic.
> 
> This is the absolute mecha, piece de resistance, the crown jewel of Peter being forced to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known by Miles' hand, come hell or high water. 
> 
> I tried my best to keep their motives intact and also keep Miles' own thought process in mind since it was starting to get murky around here, why Peter was acting the way he was. But I was able to clear most of it up in editing so I hope it's not to difficult to follow Peter's thought processes! I tried to keep them both in character and keep their responses believable. Tell me how I did!
> 
> Forewarning, this is the chapter that's dialogue-heavy, since this is pretty much a mini-intervention on Peter.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! And I hope you guys have a safe holiday!

> _You love my lips 'cause they say the_
> 
> _things we've always been afraid of_
> 
> _I can feel it startin' to subside_
> 
> _Learnin' to believe in what is mine_

It’s past midnight when Peter finds himself back on Miles’ fire escape.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, really.

He knew he should have turned and headed back to Queens the minute he finished his job. Instead, he swung back to Harlem, the alarms ringing— _blaring_ louder in his head with every block he passed, with every second he got closer to Miles.

But his head is utterly silent now.

Peter sighs, groaning a bit when his joints creak.

_Yeah, that’s gonna be sore tomorrow._

He shouldn’t have come back.

But it’s _Miles._

There’s really nothing that can stop Peter from getting to Miles if he really wanted to.

“Miles,” he calls out, just above whispering. He doesn’t let down from his perch on the railing, his gloves creaking.

He waits a beat.

Miles probably went to sleep. There’s no way that he should be staying up this late. Knowing him, though, it’s unlikely. Miles has a caffeine addiction that rivals even Peter’s. He supposes that’s just an occupational hazard with being Spider-man.

_The kid needs to sleep anyway._

Maybe he can stop by the pizza parlour before getting back home. He didn’t get to eat much during the party, especially since his visit was cut so short.

“Pete?”

He stills, a shiver going down his back. He looks over his shoulder Miles has his window opened, and he leans out, head coming out of the window—

Peter is pretty sure his heart just stopped. Miles was probably half-asleep when Peter arrived; he’s blinking blearily, grinning, the moonlight bright on his face, bringing out the deep pools of his eyes.

“Hey, what are you doing out there? Come on in.”

Peter swallows hard, heart thudding in his ears.

He shouldn’t be here. And to be a little honest, Peter is kind of freaking out. Because him being here means that he and Miles have to talk, and the idea of it, of opening up to Miles only to be rebuffed—

“It’s late,” he hears himself saying, distantly, “I should go—”

“Oh no, you don’t.”

There’s the unmistakable click of webshooters, and Peter finds himself stuck to the railing—literally.

“I see you’re liking the new webshooters.”

Miles is glaring at him, but it’s too soft for it to be scathing, too fond. “You’re not turning away. Not now, Pete. You’re already here.”

Peter breathes in shakily, his nerves fraying to the point he only realizes his hands are trembling when he tears the web off.

“Okay,” Peter says softly once he’s gotten himself free. He’s slow when he steps onto the fire escape, careful.

Miles stares at him for a moment longer, as if making sure that Peter won’t do a last-second escape, before he pulls back and widens the window further.

Peter slinks into Miles’ room, and it’s the beginning of the end.

Miles doesn’t close the window, and it’s an open message to Peter, a silent offering.

But Peter doesn’t need an escape route. Not when he’s already made his mind up. He could have taken off any moment before this. Unconsciously, no matter how small that part of him is, he still wanted to be here. And now he’s here. And Peter is not going to give Miles the idea he would escape any moment.

He closes the distance between them, reaching behind Miles to shut the window, locking it with a click. He pulls his mask off, lets it drop to the floor.

Miles smells good up this close. He smells clean too, like he showered after the party before heading to bed.

“Pete.”

They’re staring at each other now. It’s silent—the night having ended before theirs could even begin.

Peter feels way too nervous to think coherently. His mind a whirlwind, already exhausted from all the mental gymnastics it had to do at Miles’ birthday party.

So he repeats his mistake form earlier in the night, and chooses to trust his instinct.

And his instinct is to grab Miles’ face—jaw sharp as it looks—and kiss him.

_Good instinct._

Miles doesn’t shy away from the kiss anymore, so much like the overeager teenager he is, melding against Peter so easily, so readily like he was waiting for it. And that thought makes Peter all the more desperate.

Peter’s thumb runs over his jaw, encouraging him to part his lips, and Miles does.

He feels Miles’ tongue swipe against his own lips, slick and uncertain but so addictive that Peter is breathless by the third time Miles does it.

Miles pushes him, and Peter only realizes that Miles is using his superstrength when Peter tries to press further into Miles, only to meet resistance, strong and unyielding. Miles pushes him again, who nearly trips over his own feet, until he feels the footboard of Miles’ bed dig into the base of his spine and he leans against it, Miles towering over him.

Miles braces his hands on either side of Peter, keeping him trapped in his arms.

Then—Miles steps closer and slots a thigh between Peter’s and—

“ _Shit,”_ he hisses. Miles doesn’t let up, his lips now kissing the line of Peter’s jaw, thigh pressing in once, and twice and—

“Oh god, _Miles—”_

“I’ve got you, Pete.” An arm winds tight around his waist, then the other goes down, and Miles uses the heel of his hand to brush over the head of Peter’s cock once—twice—

Miles’ hand slaps over his mouth, pulling away to shoot Peter a wide-eyed look. Only then does Peter hear the noise he made echo in the back of his head, loud and mortifying.

“That sensitive, huh?” Miles says under his breath, laughing softly against Peter’s cheek. Peter pulls away Miles’ hand form his mouth, shrugging.

“It’s one of those days.”

_Besides, it’s you._

Miles doesn’t say anything in reply, only reaching up to tangle his hands into Peter’s hair, scratching lightly.

“You know, I think you’ve found Spider-man’s weakness,” Peter says breathily against Miles’ neck once he’d lolled forward, melting in Miles’ arms.

“So, salsa and head scratches. Got you.”

Peter laughs, only for it to crack into a moan when he realizes he’s still basically riding Miles’ thigh.

“Shit, sorry, Pete.”

“Yeah, uh. Should we do a raincheck on this thing?”

Miles’s shoulders slump, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, yeah. We gotta talk, right?”

“Yeah.”

Miles doesn’t pull away. Neither does Peter.

Miles looks—he looks ruined. And the fact that Peter did that is really the ultimate realization that this is really happening. This is happening.

_Hoo, boy. This is really it for you, Parker, huh?_

Miles is the first one to falter.

Peter is only able to take a single breath when Miles surges back in, this time leaning down to grab Peter’s hips and hoist him up into the air. Peter’s legs wind around him, as if it were familiar, hands resting on Miles’ now-broad shoulders.

“Oh. Damn it, Miles. You’re so—strong.”

“Thanks,” Miles says, giddy, “I work out sometimes.”

Peter snorts. “Yeah, yeah.” He pinches Miles’ surprisingly toned bicep, shaking his head fondly.

Miles lets him down gently, even knee-walking his way to the middle of the bed, and Peter sinks into pillows and sheets that only smell more of Miles—

Miles is smiling, but it’s a different kind of smile. It’s earnest. It’s soft and so full of adoration it melts Peter’s brain.

“Miles,” he mumbles hazily, pulling the younger man up to his lips and soon he’s enveloped totally by him, surrounded by his warmth, his touch and his ever-enrapturing presence.

He gasps when Miles’ hips press down and—oh.

“God, Miles, you’re amazing—you’re _amazing.”_

Miles pulls away, Peter stifling his frustrated groan. Peter opens his eyes, unnerved to see Miles frowning.

“Miles? Buddy?”

Peter’s stomach sinks. No… He’s not already—Is he?—

Miles kisses the side of his face, “No, nothing like that, Pete. I’m not regretting anything. I’ve just got something on my mind.”

Peter frowns too, sitting up on his elbows, “Then what?”

Miles’ face screws up, releases then scrunches up again, unsure. “You always say that.”

Peter wonders what he’s talking about when it clicks, then he groans, throwing himself back onto the bed. “Miles, not this again.”

The conversation on that dance floor was awkward and difficult enough. Peter really doesn’t want to rehash something so serious when he’s so painfully hard.

“We didn’t exactly finish that conversation, Pete.”

“Then, let’s leave it unfinished,” Peter retorts. Ah yes, right on time—the self-defense mechanism kicking in.

Miles shoots him an unimpressed look, a look that slowly turns into another insightful expression the longer he considers Peter. There’s that niggling itch again, like he’s being observed, being cut open and _seen_. He can probably never get used to that.

Or again, maybe it’s just because it’s Miles.

“You always validate me. And what I feel. And pretty much everyone around you too. But you always do the opposite to yourself.” Miles shakes his head, his frown twisting into something more hurt, something pricks guilt at Peter.

He grabs Peter’s face, and Peter knows he won’t be able to turn away once he looks at Miles. He’s right.

“Why don’t you see what I see?” Miles says, softly.

Peter’s breath stutters.

“I can say the same thing about you.”

Miles snorts. “We’d be going around in circles.”

Peter’s mind is blank, devoid of any foreseeable action or plan or escape route. As if he’s unconsciously accepted being handled by Miles.

Miles softens against Peter, and says instead of prying—because he knows Peter so well, knows Peter would show how deeply he feels for others rather than expose his own shortcomings—“Tell me, Pete, what do you see?”

“Someone who’s brave.”

Miles hums.

“Someone who’s passionate, who’s _crazy_ brilliant, someone who will surpass me and everyone else in give or take three years—”

“Now _that’s_ a stretch.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m serious.”

Peter reaches a hand out, fingers brushing against Miles hairline. Miles stops and stares openly.

“Someone who—who’s stupidly stubborn but I think that’s okay.” Peter swallows dryly, “Because I’m stubborn too. And you never listen to me anyways.”

Miles laughs softly at that.

“Someone who sees me. Someone who understands me. _To a fault_ , it’s actually _kinda_ creepy. You sure you didn’t activate mind-reading powers?”

“If I did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Right,” Peter chuckles. “I see someone who has my back, who I trust with my life.”

Peter’s hands start to tremble. “Someone who’s so much fun, who’s so eager—it’s crazy how adorable it is.”

Miles is silent, eerily still.

Peter’s finger trail down, grazing Miles’ jaw and neck, lower and lower.

_Someone I want._

_Someone I want to drown myself in._

His hand hovers over Miles’ chest. He spreads it wide, pressing his palm over Miles’ heart.

“Someone I don’t deserve.”

Miles frantically clutches onto him, locking Peter’s slipping hand right over his accelerating heartbeat.

“ _No._ ”

Just a simple, vehement, strong _no._

Peter tries for a smile. “See? Never listens.”

Miles reaches for his face, so heartachingly tender.

“There’s so many things wrong with that statement, man,” Miles says, pushing up to press his lips against Peter’s.

“You never ask for anything,” Miles says lowly, as if it’s a sin. “You never _say_ you want anything. Why do you do that, man?”

Peter stares at Miles, knowing there’s only one way that this conversation is going, and it’s not going to be easy.

“You never ask people to stay, but you always want them to.”

Peter closes his eyes.

Right on the money.

“That’s what happened with MJ, wasn’t it?”

Hitting with the hard questions. Peter would be proud if he wasn’t on the other end of the interrogation.

“Why you… why you wanted to run away earlier? Because you’re afraid I’ll leave?”

Peter frowns. “Um. It’s…”

Peter sighs, the temptation to _escape_ so intense. But Peter won’t fail Miles, not any more than he already has. “ _Oh-_ kay, as much as I love this position, we’re not having this conversation with you on top of me.”

Peter pushes himself up on his elbows, but when Peter tries to shift his legs to separate from Miles, the teenager doesn’t move. Peter sighs again, resigning himself to Miles’ own version of captivity.

“Guess we’re doing it like this.” Miles wriggles in his lap mindlessly, eliciting a hiss from Peter, who glares at the younger man, gripping his hips to keep it in place.

“Sorry. Anyway, continue.”

“Okay. Well, you’re half right. But it’s a lot more complicated than that.”

Miles nods. And Peter can feel that ebb of fear pricking his chest, but he forces himself to calm down, grounding himself with Miles’ touch.

“I wanted—I wanted to run away because well, you know I’m a bit of a mother hen.”

Miles snorts.

“You can say that a hundred times and still not be able to cover how protective you are.”

Peter shrugs, a painful easy grin on his face. “Yeah, well. It comes with the territory.”

Peter clears his throat, glancing away as he says, “You’ve seen firsthand how… I can be. Remember the time you jumped off a bridge?”

“Yeah, when I broke a _toe,_ and you threatened to drop everything to come get me? _How can I forget?_ ”

“Yeah,” Peter huffs in laughter, before sobering up again. “That’s the reason why MJ and I broke up the first time. I—I had the tendency to coddle people. Still do, really.

“Part of why we broke up again, but hey, it is what it is.”

Miles presses a kiss to Peter’s brow, and Peter can’t deal with how his heart flips in his chest, so he shoots Miles a look.

His protégé, way too much like him, only makes a face back, shrugging. “What? I just felt like doing it.”

_God. This kid. Wait—definitely not a kid. NOT a kid._

Peter grimaces at the lead forming in his stomach.

_Yeah. We’ll unpack that another day._

Peter leans back onto the pillows, figuring he might as well get comfortable since he has a hundred and forty pound Spider-man in his lap.

“I guess some part of me already thought things out ahead of time, daydreamed about this happening.” He makes it sound nonchalant, even if the words are anything but. As if it didn’t just expose another crevice of his heart. “And the pessimistic part of me, well—it only reminded me of my past mistakes, with MJ.”

Peter nods at Miles, but finds he’s unable to parse the look on his face. “And why it wouldn’t work out with you too.”

Peter sighs when Miles doesn’t even flinch, just nod, understanding.

“My brain gave me three choices, right then. Told me I can either lose you the same way I lost MJ or lose you how—” Peter pauses, biting his tongue that’s flooded by the taste of grief—old and familiar, “How I lost everyone else. Or I can avoid all of that and just—”

“—run,” Miles finishes for him, staring at him blankly.

Peter can feel Miles’ thighs tighten around his hips, coiled like a spring.

“Dude. So, you’re saying…” Miles licks his lips, a grimace on his face. “You’re afraid you’d scare me away because of your coddling, or—or me basically just _dying_ , so your instincts told you to take off? Leave me to fend for myself? Without any answers?”

Peter gapes, closes his mouth—gapes again.

“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

Miles scoffs, “Whatever way you say it, it sounds stupid!”

Peter wants to argue, because Miles is making it sound so simple, but it _isn’t—_ Peter spent _months_ trying to get his act together and Peter is a mess; he’s a _mess_ and no one should have the difficult task to try to pick him apart,

(because—Peter knows himself well enough, okay—he’s just not _worth it._ )

least of all Miles.

“Pete, look.” Miles leans over, hovers over him, one hand bracing himself on the headboard. It’s ridiculously distracting.

“You’re talking about me like I’m MJ.”

Peter makes a face, “What, that’s not—”

“Listen.” Miles dips forward, brushing his nose against Peter’s in a movement that tells Peter he didn’t even think before doing. _Focus, Peter._ “You talk like I’m normal, like I’m a vulnerable civilian, Pete, but I’m _not._ I’m Spider-man, whether you like it or not. That should, technically, completely cut out the ‘basically dying’ fear.”

In his mind’s eye, images flash before him—Spider-man fighting Scorpion, Spider-man fighting Vulture, Spider-man fighting—just... He’s also unable to count the number of times that Miles has gotten injured, even under his watch. A frown curves his lips. “To be honest, Miles, I think it only gets worse.”

Miles tilts his head, thinking, then he mirrors Peter’s expression too.

“Okay, maybe, yes, a little bit. My bad. Being Spider-man does have its cons.”

Peter can feel the weight on his chest—a weight that he’s been carrying for so long, for as long as Miles has become Spider-man. And because Miles is looking at him like _that_ , Peter can’t stop the bumbling words from falling, “You’re never safe, not really. And that’s my fault because I dragged you into this life and—”

“Woah, woah, woah, slow down, Pete,” Miles hushes him, and lips find their way back to Peter’s browbone again, reassuring. Then, Miles pulls back and curses under his breath. “Damn, this really goes deep, huh? Okay, fine, that’s okay. We’ll talk about it another day.”

Miles clears his throat, pinning Peter with a heavy stare. “I’ll give you a rundown, more for my sake than yours. You didn’t drag me into this life, okay, Pete? I begged my way into it—I’m tryin’ hard not to think about how embarrassing that is but—”

“God, you were so adorable back then.”

“C’mon, man,” Miles says softly.

“Okay, okay.” Peter’s lips twitch. He places a grounding hand on Miles’ hip, unable to help himself.

“I would’ve tried to be Spider-man on my own if you didn’t take me under your wing. And I’m grateful you did, because I really might’ve been dead by now.”

A weak noise erupts from the back of Peter’s throat, not amused anymore. Miles winces.

“Right, bad joke. Sorry.”

“’M tryna not to think about it,” Peter rasps, sharp.

“But you get my point, right? You didn’t, like, lock me down and drag me into becoming Spider-man. I wanted it. It’s not your fault, you get me?”

The way that Miles says it, Peter can’t help but believe him.

Miles clears his throat, ducking his head, and saying quickly, “Okay, moving on. Now, about the coddling part.”

Miles snorts then. “ _You’re_ the one to talk, Pete, as if you don’t give me a fair share of heart attacks. You think it’s easy for me to see you take the hard hits? _Especially_ the ones meant for me?”

“Take, for example, that fight with Rhino. When my venom powers just came.”

Peter tries to recall for a moment, but it’s difficult when _Miles Morales_ is sitting in his lap. It clicks in his head then, “Roxxon?”

“Yeah.” Miles looks off to the side. The room is dark, but it’s not a problem because of their senses. But even with the limited amount of moonlight pooling in, the line of Miles’ throat is sharp, distracting.

“When I saw you there, injured and calling for help. I was—” Miles goes still in his arms, and his eyes gloss over, no doubt a memory replaying in his head—an unpleasant one. “I was scared _shitless_ , dude.”

Peter softens, hands coming up to brace Miles—he wants to look at Miles. The look in his eyes tells of many nightmares and sleepless nights.

“I screwed up, and I really didn’t know what I would have done if you died because of Rhino.”

_Because of me._

Peter purses his lips, his heart bleeding for Miles—who’s still worried out of his mind, even when the danger has passed, long ago. That fear doesn’t go away, even with copious amounts of logic thrown at it. Peter knows it well.

Miles sighs, wipes off the mopey-ness in his stature and brightens up.

“So, technically, I have much of a right as you do to coddle _you._ Since you’ve got the _audacity_ to coddle Spider-man back,” Miles’ tone turns teasing, but Peter doesn’t laugh. “I’m going to presume that you won’t break up with me just because I’m worried about you?”

Peter nods, stilted, and Miles grins even wider. Peter is staring at him, his heart bursting because when Miles puts it that way (takes whatever tangled mess is in Peter’s head and splays it open, taking it apart and making it make _sense_ in a way that only Miles can) Peter can’t help but trust him, listen to him.

“What about the running?” Peter asks softly.

Miles freezes then.

“That’s for you to decide, right?” Miles’ voice is sharp, and the words come out a little clumsy, “That—That can’t be helped.”

_Ah, shit. Not what I meant._

“Miles.”

But he doesn’t stop rambling, talking about how it’s Peter’s choice if he wants to leave, he really won’t mind—and that’s placating bullshit that Peter knows well.

(—because if Miles even felt a _fraction_ of what Peter feels for him, if Peter ever left, it would—it would fucking _hurt._ )

Peter sits up then, pulling Miles in his space, pressing their foreheads together.

“Miles, look at me.” He forces that jaw up—staring in big, big pools of dark, engulfing Peter like a black hole. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do you know me?” Peter says, a little more lighthearted. “I’m the last person to run. Usually, that just spells trouble for me because I’ve been told that I’m _stubborn_ as all hell—”

Peter tilts his head playfully, as if considering, “ _—buuut_ I guess that’s good in situations like these.”

Miles doesn’t lose that tension, still stiff underneath his palms. Peter shakes his head. Humor doesn’t work. Not here. Miles deserves better than that.

Instead, he gambles, and lets himself run on blind instinct alone, letting his emotions guide him instead of thinking.

“I won’t run. Ever. Not anymore. Not when you’re involved.”

Miles’ face shutters, “But you said you wanted—”

“I wanted to run because of those two reasons, remember? You dying and/or suffocating from my coddling?”

The sweetness in Miles’ stare makes Peter ache.

“Yeah.”

 _Here it is_. _The magnum opus of impulsive confessions._

“I was afraid. But you—you brushed those reasons—those fears—off like they were _nothing_ , Miles. You made it made sense. And I’ve been trying my goddamned level best to rationalize it in my head the past few months but you—you did that in _minutes_ , Miles.”

He tries not to pay attention to how his voice wavers, how it cracks, because Peter

Peter can see the weight of abandonment issues over Miles. Knows it deep in his bones. The kid lost his dad, then his best friend, both sacrificing themselves for things greater than themselves. And Peter knows he fits right into that category of people who wouldn’t hesitate to do the same.

Peter knows that fear intimately, and he never wants Miles to feel it too, not if he can help it.

“I’m not leaving. Unless you want me to.”

Miles cracks completely then. “Ah, man, Pete. You’re gonna make me cry with that type of crap.”

“Well, I don’t care,” Peter says simply, as if it made sense. “For as long as takes to get rid of whatever you’re feeling; for as long as you need to hear it—I’m saying as much crap as I want to.”

Miles stares at him.

“Shi— _Pete_. Now, I’m _really_ gonna cry.”

To his surprise, tears really do spring into Miles’ eyes, shiny and unbidden.

Miles blinks them away before they can drop, laughing to himself. It’s such a pure, unadulterated image that Peter wants to keep for himself. More than anything, he wishes he had his camera now.

Miles straightens up, a different sort of emotion flashing across his face. “You wanna know what I see?”

Peter’s breath gets stuck in his chest, and he scrambles for anything to say only to find himself short, unable to stop the subway train that is Miles.

“I see light,” Miles starts, eyes trained somewhere above Peter’s head. “Brighter than anything. You’re so—just so _bright.”_

Miles laughs to himself again, but it’s sweet and full of adoration that Peter just _can’t._

“It’s hard to explain but everywhere you are, you’re just—lighting up the room. The way you smile, it’s—” Miles shakes his head, stuttering, eyes finding Peter’s.

“But you don’t burn. You’re…” Miles purses his lips, searching. “You’re soft. Warm. Like a nightlight. Or—or, like a fireplace during the winter.”

And the way he says it is so new, so _innocent_ that Peter just wants to take Miles away, protect him from everything else. “You protect me. You keep me safe.”

“Does that make sense?” Miles asks lamely. Peter shakes his head. “No less sense I make whenever I talk about you.”

Miles cracks a grin that makes Peter’s stomach flip. “Aw, man. That’s kind of adorable.”

“Thanks. I try.”

Miles sobers at that statement, and his eyes go big, deeper—enveloping Peter yet also seeing through him like glass.

“I know you do, man,” Miles says quietly. He dips down again, brushing his nose over Peter’s. Peter only closes his eyes, revelling in Miles’ touch.

“I see someone who gives away every piece of himself. To keep everyone happy. Because it makes him happy,” Miles continues, low and breathy, as if his words are the only thing keeping him together. “I see someone who gives so much, yet somehow hasn’t gotten it through his thick skull that he deserves the freaking world.”

Miles kisses forehead. Then his cheeks, both of them, slow and tender.

Peter’s heart doesn’t know if it wants to slow down or jump out of his chest.

“I see someone so good. You’re _good,_ Pete. Better than I could ever be.”

Peter races to grab onto Miles’ face, pressing their foreheads together.

“No, that’s impossible—”

“I see the man I admire. I see—” Miles slips out of his grip, and Peter watches as emotions flit across his face—he’s considering, words caught on his tongue. And Peter has a feeling they are words that aren’t ready to come out yet, at least for Miles.

Peter doesn’t want to open his mouth, to tell him to stop, because Miles doesn’t ever listen and he might even say it just to be stubborn, but he places a hand over Miles’ heart, waits until Miles looks at him, then gives a minuscule shake of his head.

Just like that, Miles melts, relief palpable.

So, Peter knows the words are different, words that are easier for him to say when Miles continues—

“And he’s _enough.”_

Peter stops.

_Christ._

That statement sounds so trite on its own, almost like an insult if said by anyone else—but Peter can see it for what it is. Everything else is so hard, hard, so goddamn hard all the time, it’s endless, and sometimes Peter—

Look, Peter knows he can’t complain about being Spider-man. He _asked_ for it. And he loves his job.

But if he could, Peter will say that there are facets of Spider-man that ask too much, that take too much from him. Because always— _always,_ he’s never strong enough, never fast enough, quick enough, smart enough—always one more person he could have saved, one more car crash he could have stopped, so many things he could have prevented, could have ended before it started and—

It has the tendency, sometimes, to make Peter feel small. With all the odds stacked up against him, Peter can’t help but feel like he’s not _enough_ —never enough.

He’d thought he bundled up that fear so tightly in his chest, so far away from peering eyes. But others have seen through it, others have picked it apart and seen him for what he is. People who know him inside out—Doctor Octavius, Aunt May, MJ and now…

Miles.

Apparently.

And the way he’s staring at Peter, the way he’s holding him—tone firm as if every word he said was the undeniable, factual, truth—Peter has a hard time trying to fight against it. Miles is so inviting, so warm and soothing that Peter only wants to melt, wants to give it all to him, to trust Miles’ words.

Trust has always been something Peter gives freely. It’s something that his younger self—hurt and so so young—would have wanted to train out of himself, would have thought it a weakness. But trusting people have always and will always come easily to Peter. He’s just gotten better at managing the pain from the fallout—from the inevitable disappointment.

But with Miles—every atom of Peter’s body tells him he can _trust_ Miles, wholly, unconditionally, and never have that trust thrown right back at his face.

And it’s the most addicting feeling. He can’t ever get enough of it.

“Miles.” It’s a helpless, weak call, and Peter’s instincts are right once again—proven right in front of Peter’s eyes—when Miles pulls him up to sit, encasing Peter in his arms.

“I’ve got you, Pete.”

When Miles says these words so freely, so earnestly, Peter can’t do anything in the face of it. He’s stuck. Helpless.

The only difference is that he knows Miles will see through all of it, see through the fear, reach into Peter to pull him out of his own head, rationalize all of it away and say he’s _enough._

“ _Miles.”_

The young man only presses further, taking Peter in as if it’s something so easy—like it’s nothing that Miles can’t handle, like it’s another Spider-man mission he tackles with enthusiasm, like it’s not nine years of baggage and seven years of distance between them.

“I love you.”

Miles sighs, torn, “Aw, man.”

Peter shakes his head insistently. “You don’t have to say it. It’s… a _lot,_ I know. Like—a lot, a lot.”

“I was gonna say the same thing to you. I mean, we did address like—a lot of things. Way more things than I thought.”

“And there’s still more to cover,” Peter says. Miles hums. They haven’t addressed their age difference, and Miles’ own abandonment issues, and Peter’s misplaced guilt about dragging Miles into being Spider-man, and the fact Peter still kind of blames himself for Miles’ dad—

So, yeah. Lots of things to unpack.

“We’ve got time. I mean, to me, it’s all worth it, man.”

Peter smiles against Miles’ soft sweatshirt, “Did you read my mind? I was _just_ thinking that.”

Miles shakes with laughter, voice light. “For a second there, I thought I was back in counselling.”

Peter laughs too, pressing his nose against the column of Miles’ throat. “No wonder you were so… insightful. I guess. Picked me apart better than any therapist I’ve ever had.”

Miles goes silent, pulling away. “I guess the counselling helped me piece things together. But, dude, it’s just—you’re just easy to understand, Pete. Kind of predictable in some way, if that makes any kind of sense. Like, all you ever want to do is to keep people close to you happy and safe. Then, bring in the fact you’re kind of self-sacrificial—”

Miles shrugs, as if he didn’t just break down Peter to his bare essentials.

“And, we just _click_. On some weird Spider-man-slash-superhero level, I just… get it, you know? Plus, I’ve listened to so many of your trains of thought that I can just kinda… predict how you think.”

Peter’s gaping because _damn it, this kid…_

“What the hell,” Peter mumbles. “I’ve created a monster.”

“At least a cool monster? Do I get to be a dragon? Scales are cool. Plus, _flying._ ”

“I think you’re more of like—uh, a lochness monster. Wait, that’s not right—maybe like a monster from cosmic horror, like Cthulhu or something.”

“Aw, man, that’s cool too. Like Lovecraftian monsters? But why, though?”

“Well,” Peter says carelessly and adjusts Miles on his lap, sliding him closer, “When I look at you, I couldn’t have ever thought you exist, and I’m _pretty_ sure I lose my mind.”

The line has its intended effect, with Miles snorting an ugly laugh into Peter’s shoulder.

“ _Bro._ I don’t know how you do it. How are you able to turn an insult to a pick-up line? Incredible.” Peter shrugs, grinning at how Miles is absolutely cracking up.

“With experience. Speaking of—” Peter leans back onto the bed, hands resting over Miles' hips. “—I fixed up the ‘Super Advanced Quip Training’ hologram challenge. Wanna try it out tomorrow?”

Miles gently lays himself over Peter’s chest, resting his ear over where Peter’s heart is. Peter is just able to cover his snort.

“Can’t. I got homework, plus patrol. Maybe Sunday?”

Peter nods.

It’s a lull of silence, long and stretched out. The worst has passed—at least, Peter hopes.

“Happy birthday, Miles.”

Miles hums, content. “It’s one am. Not my birthday anymore.”

Peter huffs. “Happy _belated_ birthday.”

“Then, can I say you’re a late birthday gift?”

“What—the headphones and webshooters not enough?”

“No, no, they are. More than enough. Love them—but, you know. They’re not you.”

Peter laughs.

“You—You’ll, uh—”

Miles pauses.

“Can you wake me up before you go?”

Peter looks down, sees bright brown eyes peering into his own.

_I love you, kid. So much. Too much._

“Sure, Miles. Anything you want.”

_More than I can ever say._

“That’s good. Should I set an alarm? You know, so my mom doesn’t come in and wake us up.”

“Yup, yup. Good idea.”

His heart flops to his belly when Miles presses a chaste kiss on his lips, dragging his fingers down Peter’s scalp.

_Christ. It’s like being a teenager all over again._

“I mean—if you and I wake up a little earlier then, maybe—”

_Okay, bad, bad, bad—shut your dumbass up, Parker._

Miles tenses against him, and Peter silently curses at himself.

_Great. Way to make Miles feel uncomfortable. Idiot._

“I don’t mind.” Miles’ gaze is bright, filled to the brim with something Peter can’t parse.

_Ah._

_Yeah._

_Maybe I’d rather take Miles rejecting me._

“Well—let’s just go to sleep. Got a big day tomorrow. Patrols and crimes—dangerous stuff—”

“And homework.”

Peter grins. “Right, can’t forget that. Can’t believe you’re in senior year already.”

“Yeah, crazy stuff.”

“You know which college you’re going to?”

“Empire State, obviously, but can we please not talk about college right now? Let’s just sleep.”

“Ah, yes. Let’s just hope Scorpion doesn’t decide on rain on your parade.”

Miles snorts. “Don’t jinx it, man. And go to _sleep._ ”

A warm hand slides up, intertwining with Peter’s gloved fingers. In all the drama in the past half hour or so, Pete forgot that he was even still in his Spider-suit, maybe he should go change.

He brushes that thought off when Miles nuzzles further into Peter’s neck, breaths slow and steady.

_Ah well. Won’t be the first time I slept in my suit._

Peter curls his arm tighter around Miles, content.

“G’night, Pete.”

“Goodnight, Miles.”

Peter presses his lips to Miles’ head.

“I love you. Again.”

He can feel Miles lips curl into a smile.

“I know.”

* * *

“So.”

“So.”

Peter grins over his steaming cup of coffee, cocking a brow at MJ.

“You really didn’t have to buy me coffee just to get your Thor t-shirt back.”

Peter shrugs, placing his cup down. MJ’s lips twitches, something akin to suspicion in her eyes.

“What happened? You’re more… smiley than usual, even for your standards. Did something happen last night?”

Peter’s eyes dart away, mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the words. At MJ’s dawning realization, he eventually settles on, “Something like that.”

MJ’s surprise settles into a smile. It’s soft and familiar. In another time, he would have melted. Now, though, Peter can only feel relieved.

He’s got another person he’s absolutely gone for now.

“He really is a good influence,” MJ muses, “He… I don’t know. He brings out something in you, something I haven’t seen since—well, you know.”

Peter bites down on the sting of grief. It’s been over two years at this point. It’s easier, _time heals all wounds and all that_ , but no less painful to think about.

“Yeah. Miles is—” Peter laughs shakily, leaning back in his seat, “He’s—he’s really something. He’s incredible, MJ.”

Miles and MJ—they’re both too good for Peter. Truly, they are. Peter’s lucky to have both of them in his life in any capacity.

“I know that face. You’re thinking too hard, you’re feeling _guilty.”_

Peter waves a hand, “No. I’m not. I think. I mean—sort of.”

MJ levels with him with one of her deadpan looks, and Peter can only crack.

“It’s just—” Peter stops, suddenly choking on his words. This was so much easier with Miles. Everything had spilt out like it was nothing.

_Huh. Guess Miles really does bring something out._

“I’m glad to be friends with you, you know that, right?”

MJ leans in, suspicion right back in her eyes. “Yes,” she says slowly.

“And I’m glad to have Miles, like _really_ happy. But this doesn’t—you know it’s not your fault, right?”

MJ furrows her brows, like Peter is a puzzle she can’t figure out.

“Uh, I don’t know what—” MJ gapes, “Oh. _Oh.”_

MJ starts to laugh and Peter can’t help but blush. “No, no, no, Pete. There were many reasons why we broke up, but I promise that Miles isn’t one of them. You weren’t, like, neglecting me when you first started training Miles. No, you were great, Pete.”

Peter’s shoulders come down slowly, tension bleeding out. MJ shifts in her seat, a look settling over her face—Peter calls it her ‘journalist’ face, tongue ready to fight back with her arguments.

“One of the main reasons, well, I’d say it’s just because—Spider-man and I just didn’t click.” Peter makes a face, and MJ goes in to clarify quickly, “You and I, Pete, we _clicked_. It’s probably the only reason why we’re still talking here right now. But I couldn’t understand Spider-man, at least not in a way you needed me to. You being Spider-man and being overprotective—I just couldn’t handle it back then. I could now, probably, if we both tried hard enough but—”

MJ shrugs, biting her lips as a light blush comes over her face. Peter grins wickedly. “But? Wait—let me guess, is it a certain mercenary?”

MJ rolls her eyes. Peter’s teasing smile turns into something sardonic, a touch self-deprecating. “I mean, at least you’re not dating a high school senior.”

MJ is silent, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m not going to say anything that you haven’t already said to yourself. I know you, Pete.”

Peter’s shoulders slump, losing his smile entirely. And because MJ is really just amazing, MJ reaches over the table to press her hand over Peter’s, touch infinitely comforting.

“I’m only going to say this,” MJ starts, something twinkling in her eye. “Silver’s twelve years old than me.”

Peter can only gape at MJ, who now has a smirk tugging at her lips.

His phone buzzes, his hand reaching for his pocket absentmindedly. His finger slips across the screen.

_Patrol time?_

Peter grins. Another text pops up.

_Mom cooked some empanadillas_

Peter’s fingers fly over the keyboard.

**_Gonna pack some for me?_ **

_Obviously._

_Gotta feed my spider-boyfriend and his skinny ass_

Peter cracks up, shaking his head.

**_Dork_ **

_You love me_

**_Damnit, of course I do_ **

“Is it go time?” MJ asks, tone innocent. Peter whips up and—MJ is downright _beaming._

“Uh, yeah.” Peter glances down, shaking his head at the new text.

_That sounds like a ‘you’ problem bro_

“Yeah,” Peter meets MJ’s eyes, “I’ve got a date.”

> _I'd love to see me from your point of view_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> [*That story about Peter wanting to drop everything because Miles broke a toe after jumping off a bridge, it's 100% canon. (4:56 - 6:09)](https://youtu.be/8IuWzb9sP94?t=296)  
> And that's the end, guys! I hope you enjoyed this emotional roller coaster. Hope it didn't drag on too much.  
> Really, this is just for me to dump all of Peter's internal conflict into one fic and have both Miles and Peter confront it together like the power couple they could be. (Since I already sort of did that for Miles in my last fic)
> 
> At this point, there's really no telling what I'm gonna write next. I'm interested in exploring cliches and tropes with these two but for now, I'm just glad I got to post this! <3
> 
> Tell me what you think! Drop a kudos! Scream at me in the comments!  
> Or you can find me on tumblr and scream at me there. (@marin27iswriting or @noncommited-writer)
> 
> (Also, I'm not going to apologise for the no beta tag)

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a saucy kudos and tell me what you think! I love every bit of feedback or any type of comment <3  
> Thanks for reading and sticking around!


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